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/ 

THE SHINING ROAD 


A NOVEL 


BY 

BERNICE BROWN 




G.P.Putnam’s Sons 

NewYork & London 
©je Knickerbocker Press 

1923 

(V ^ 



Copyright, 1913 
by 

Bernice Brown V 




Made in the United States of America 

FEB 15'23 * ^ 

©C1A69C367 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER. PAGE 

I.—“Stranger—My Dog” .... 3 

II. —The Emperor Hadrian 41 

III. —Her Thousand Dollars . . < 77 

IV. —Schnitzler versus Blackstone . .116 

V. —For Women Are Like That . . 15 1 

VI. —Being a Nobody. 185 


VII. —The Man who Married a Dumb-bell . 213 
VIII. —Stephen Douglas D’Artagnan . . 247 






f 
















* 



I 






THE SHINING ROAD 

















THE SHINING ROAD 


CHAPTER I 

"STRANGER-MY dog” 

OTEPHEN HEZEKIAH DOUGLAS had been 
placed out. One day in early March Hephzibah 
Preston visited the home for orphans in Des Moines 
and she chose Stephen, perhaps because he had a 
quaint twist to his smile, or because his hair curled 
softly above his ears and in the nape of his neck, 
or perhaps because his middle name was Plezekiah. 
Hephzibah Preston came from New England and 
she believed that all the fundamental virtues orig¬ 
inated east of the Mississippi. Not of course that 
the boy’s middle name was any proof of his origin, 
but it pointed that way. 

At any rate Mrs. Preston signed a great many 
papers and assured an efficient and starchy matron 
that she and her husband would take care of the 


3 


4 


THE SHINING ROAD 


boy and see that he finished the grades. Stephen’s 
traveling outfit, including all his belongings, was 
packed in the photogravure section of a Chicago 
Sunday paper and Stephen and his new protector 
departed on the 12:15 for Green Mountain, Iowa. 

On the train the boy sat next to the window but 
his eyes were fixed upon a perambulating cockroach 
that traversed the red plush of the seat opposite 
them. A curious, numb embarrassment seized upon 
Hephzibah Preston. She wanted to say something 
to this little chap whom yesterday she never had 
heard of and for whom to-day she was irrevocably 
responsible. Perhaps if she had been born west of 
the Mississippi she might have tousled his hair and 
bought him a box of indigestible honey-coated pop¬ 
corn which a nasal-voiced, adenoidal newsboy was 
shouting through the train. 

“This town we’re stoppin’ at is New Castle and 
the next one is Roaring Brook, and then Green 
Mountain,” she said at last. “We get off there.” 

Still the boy’s eyes did not leave the back of the 
cockroach. The newsvender on his return through 
the train thrust a yellow-and-black checkered box of 
lemon drops into her hands. 

“Five cents, a nickel, a half a dime,” he bawled, 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


5 


delighted with the witticism he had learned at a 
Fort Dodge street fair. 

Hephzibah Preston bought it. 

“Here, Hezekiah,” she said. 

“Nobody never calls me that,” he protested. But 
he smiled his queer twisted smile at her and held 
the box, unopened, clasped tightly in his hands. 

A hot rush of tenderness surged through her, and 
something like a sob caught in her throat. Zeke 
would be mad, she knew. Zeke wanted somebody 
big enough to be a hand. The thrifty theory that 
it was cheaper to adopt than to hire was the motive 
back of his slowly matured purpose to take a boy. 
Hephzibah consoled herself with the thought that 
there hadn’t been many big boys to chose from, any¬ 
way, and this one would grow. Just the same, as 
the jogging day coach approached Green Mountain, 
the size of Stephen Hezekiah began to shrink and 
her apprehensions to increase. 

It was a gray day, heavy with the portent of more 
rain, and the roads were still logy from the late 
thaw. Zeke had driven the plow horse to the spring 
wagon, and it was standing now outside the dreary 
station where many another plow horse had pawed 
hollows of restlessness in the soft earth while his 


6 


THE SHINING ROAD 


master gossiped with Trim Hiatt in the waiting 
room. Zeke Preston wasn’t the sort who gossiped. 
People didn’t like Zeke, and he didn’t like people. 
Into the easy-going, generous, loose-fisted Middle 
West he had brought the grim inheritance of a 
long line of Vermont farmers, men whose lives 
never lifted more than one notch above the narrow 
margin of poverty. Against those rocky, unrequit¬ 
ing hillsides they had rubbed out their existences, 
like steel against a whetstone. When the little colony 
of New England pioneers had gone West, Zeke 
followed, but he had never caught up with them. 
Though they brought to a mountainless, creekless 
prairie the old Vermont names of Green Mountain 
and Roaring Brook, they left much behind. 

In Iowa one farmed in a big way, loosely, extrava¬ 
gantly, successfully. It was a young soil, wantonly 
fertile and responsive. Men staked out big farms 
and helped one another in the harvest season. Zeke 
Preston asked no help—nor did he give any. Iowa 
farming seemed to him wasteful and a sin. Not 
possessing the gift of expression, he was understood 
by nobody. Nobody tried to understand him. 

“Zeke Preston’s as close as Sunday to Monday,” 
opined Trim Hiatt. 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


7 


But Trim Hiatt was no great psychologist. If 
Zeke Preston seemed parsimonious, his parsimony 
arose not from motives of greed. Every foot of 
that stubborn New England farm had been tilled 
as a French peasant tills his garden. The struggle 
to live had grooved into his consciousness some¬ 
thing deeper than mere thrift. He owed something 
to his land, just as it owed something to him. If 
he had called that something a name, it might have 
been loyalty, but the Prestons had no gift for speech. 
The slap-dash, careless methods of any pioneer 
people seemed sacrilege to him. 

“They cheat the land,” he protested. 

Perhaps they did, but it appeared each season an 
inexhaustible treasury. 

When Green Mountain heard that Zeke Preston 
and his New England wife, who kept house with 
the same short-sighted thrift with which Zeke 
farmed, were going to take a boy, there was much 
speculation and not a little concern in the village. 

“I suppose old Zeke’ll give him one square meal 
a day and an orange on Christmas,” remarked Trim 
Hiatt. 

There were those who distrusted even this 
abundance. 


8 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“It's a durn fool thing for them to do,” announced 
Dade Fellows. 

Zeke, as he walked up and down the platform, 
his coonskin collar hugged up tightly against a raw 
March wind, thought so too. When he saw his 
wife and the thin legged, gray-eyed urchin at her 
side he knew so. 

“Zeke, this is Hezekiah,” she said. She could 
not know the pleading that burned in her eyes. 

Zeke stared and grunted. 

“Well?” she said. 

“He seems awful little,” the man answered. “Git 
into the wagon.” 

Wedged in between the two, the boy from the 
Home for Orphans watched the reins flop up and 
down on the broad back of old Ringer. He won¬ 
dered why it was they never quite flopped off. Then 
he wondered why it seemed to hurt so much just 
to swallow and why his eyes smarted. He hugged 
the little box of lemon drops so hard his fingers 
ached and grew white. 

“Won’t be good for much but pullin’ mornin’- 
glory weeds,” the man was saying. 

Hephzibah Preston never talked back. It was 


wiser not to. 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


9 


For supper that night they had codfish balls and 
mince pie. The codfish came in a wooden box, and 
it always molded a little before they could finish 
it, but then one had always had codfish for supper 
in Vermont. The milk Stephen discovered would 
some way slip down contained more yellow cream 
than Zeke Preston, by the light of the one kerosene 
lamp, could ascertain. Considerably more than he 
would have deemed necessary. 

After supper Stephen helped redd up the kitchen. 
At the home he had done dishes whenever his turn 
came around, and he had never been considered 
unhandy, but to-night, either because he was very 
tired, or just too miserable to care, Zeke’s moustache 
cup, that had come all the way from Vermont, 
squirmed some way from under his soapy fingers 
and went crashing to the floor. Perhaps if the sob 
that had been struggling in his throat for an hour 
had not escaped then the accident would not have 
become a tragedy. But Zeke hated a cry-baby. 

“How old d’you say he was, this boy?” the man 
thundered. 

Stephen jumped as though he had been struck. 
For a brief instant he tried to meet the man’s eyes, 
but it was a failure. On his knees, his eyes blinded 


10 


THE SHINING ROAD 


now with tears, he tried to pick up the rough pieces. 
Kneeling beside him was Hephzibah. Their Jiands 
touched in a futile effort to reassemble the treasure. 

“How old d’you say he was?” Zeke repeated. 
He had risen now and was standing, feet wide apart, 
glaring down at them. 

“ ’Leven,” the boy stumbled, “ ’leven.” This time 
his voice came stronger. Looking up suddenly, he 
caught the eye of the man towering above him. 
u ’Leven, goin’ on twelve”—he fairly screamed now 
—“you—big bully!” 

Zeke Preston caught the boy’s arm and twisted 
it back sharply. Hephzibah did not look up. Though 
the fragments dropped again from her fingers, this 
time it was she who could not see to reassemble 
them. 

Late that night she crept upstairs to the gable 
room where Stephen slept. It was cold there, but 
she stood a long time. Finally the boy stirred, and 
in the moonlight she could see his eyes open. Heph¬ 
zibah knew she must say something. 

“Here’s your box of lemon drops,” she finally 
stammered. “You must ha’ left them when you 
went to bed, Hezekiah.” 

For a long moment he did not answer, then he 


14 STRANGER—MY DOG” 


II 


stretched out his hand from the bed clothes. “No¬ 
body never calls me that,” he protested. But he 
smiled at her. 

Held tight against him, the sharp-edged little box 
seemed strangely comforting. Comforting too was 
the memory Hephzibah bore away of that twisted, 
soon-gone smile. 

As a farming asset, Zeke Preston’s estimate of 
Stephen Hezekiah’s prowess could not be said to 
err. Stephen was distinctly a failure. His small¬ 
ness and delicacy precluded the doing of any of the 
heavier chores. Even Zeke, who spared neither him¬ 
self nor anyone else, was forced to admit there were 
some things too heavy for the boy to lift. As a 
puller of weeds, too, he left much to be desired. 
Even a kindly disposed employer would have to be 
exonerated for a show of irritation when beans and 
peas and early sweet corn plants were removed in 
the same thorough manner as iron weed and elephant 
ear and wild clover. Stephen Hezekiah’s idea of 
weeding a garden was to extract from it all grow¬ 
ing plant life. 

Besides, Stephen always found delightful things 
to play with, grotesquely long, plump angleworms, 
hoptoads, ground thrush nests, and the sluggish 


12 


THE SHINING ROAD 


water in the quarter-section ditch offered infinite 
possibilities in the way of crawdads and tadpoles. 
Had his own wishes been consulted, he would have 
preferred a dog or even a kitten to this entire galaxy 
of amphibians, but dogs and cats had to be fed 
extra and were consequently taboo. One must con¬ 
tent oneself with the pets nature offered. In the 
house Hephzibah insisted the boy was a great help. 
Perhaps he was, but Zeke remained skeptical. Any¬ 
way, as he growled, he hadn’t intended to adopt a 
hired girl. 

Often Stephen Hezekiah’s motives were unques¬ 
tionably of the best. He would have every intention 
to pile the firewood neatly in the lean-to back of 
the kitchen, to empty the ashes in the Franklin 
burner, to search the haymow for the eggs of 
itinerant hens, and to finish hoeing the squash patch. 
But a field mouse, he discovered, had taken up her 
abode in the woodpile. How could one pile on more 
sticks until one had first searched out the field 
mouse’s apartment? There might be baby field 
mice! The situation held undoubted possibilities. 

Almost without fail, too, Zeke Preston would 
appear at the moment when some undertaking thor¬ 
oughly unconnected with work was under way. To 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


13 


the boy Zeke was like an ogre conjured up out of 
the darkness of an unfriendly world. To Zeke 
Stephen represented the flowering of that shiftless¬ 
ness and disloyalty he abhorred in his neighbors, but 
which in them he was powerless to eradicate. What 
a sensible man would have been exasperated witli, 
but would have forgiven, Zeke held to be a moral 
rottenness. Unless the boy were chastened, he would 
grow up a waster and a scoundrel. Zeke held him¬ 
self to be the divinely appointed chastener. To a 
lonely child even a hoptoad can become a resource. 
Zeke, however, had no patience with such foolish¬ 
ness. He even suspected the boy of being a little 
queer. 

With the strong fall rains a tragedy took place 
up on Section Four. The wire fence along the 
quarter-section ditch was washed away and a cow 
stumbled into the muddy torrent and was drowned. 
The loss of the cow was a catastrophe almost irre¬ 
parable. Besides, with the husking and the fall 
plowing Zeke had no time for mending fences. A 
long inspection of the matter, too, convinced him 
new poles and wires were required and that would 
mean a special trip to town, a day lost on the farm, 
and an outlay of maybe fifteen dollars. Zeke brooded 


14 


THE SHINING ROAD 


over it as another man might a decision involving 
thousands. He juggled it this way and that in his 
mind and furrows of anxiety deepened between his 
shaggy brows. Then he remembered the boy. Ste¬ 
phen should drive the cows to pasture each morning 
and stay with them till milking time. By the broken 
fence he should take up his sentinel and with a long 
stick drive them back whenever an adventurous urge 
toward new fields of clover should overcome them. 

All the way to the pasture that first day Zeke 
impressed the boy with the seriousness of his 
mission. Had the Prestons been born with the gift 
of speech, Zeke’s words would have burned. Here 
was Stephen’s chance to prove that even in the heart 
of boys who have been placed out exists a spark 
of loyalty; here was his opportunity to redeem the 
sins of his heedless past. 

But all he could say was, “Ye must be mindful 
of the critters, boy,” and: “None of that laggin’, 
boy; step along.” 

Stephen Hezekiah had every good reason in the 
world for lagging. He was cold already, for the 
raw chill of early winter tinged the air, and the 
fields, seared brown and withered, held none of the 
resources or witchery of summer. He would be 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


15 


in luck to find more than a half dozen crickets and 
a stiff-legged, moody grasshopper to beguile his 
solitude. 

But Stephen’s chief reason for lagging was none 
of these. It was a reason Zeke would never tolerate 
—a miserable, cowardly reason. Stephen was afraid 
of the cows! True, as he trudged behind with Zeke, 
they seemed like great ambling creatures, unbeliev¬ 
ably clumsy and stupid but amenable, at least to 
Zeke’s gruff commands. Alone with them, their 
whole personality changed. They became monstrous 
things with terrible rolling eyes and tremendous, 
quivering nostrils. They stamped and snorted and 
shook their heads. Even when dozing over an 
endless cud they appeared only contemplating some 
new and sinister deviltry. 

“Here boy,” Zeke commanded, “ye kin sit on 
this stone, and if they come near this ditch ye holler 
at them and wave yer stick. Ye won’t have no 
trouble, much,” he amended. 

Stephen sat on the stone as exhorted and surveyed 
his command. There were seven of them, and they 
were pleased to ignore him. Head down they 
plodded along, sniffing and blowing at the grass, 
already a little stiff for their pleasure. They even 


i6 


THE SHINING ROAD 


had the grace to meander in the opposite direction. 
Stephen’s nerves relaxed, but his spirits did not 
ascend. Even though terror had departed, a com¬ 
plete and absorbing wretchedness overpowered him. 
It had been better than this at the home. They had 
had lots of good times afternoons when school was 
over. With the cruel vividness of youth he remem¬ 
bered the clay stove he and Pete Elkins had built 
behind the woodshed and how they had saved a 
boiled potato from their dinner and fried it in a 
broken saucer. He remembered their marble games 
and their baseball and the Christmas tree they had 
had last year with candles and long strings of pop¬ 
corn and cranberries. He wondered if Pete Elkins 
had been placed out too and what had become of 
the clay stove and the unfriendly tiger cat that had 
belonged to the matron. He felt a sudden tender¬ 
ness for that tiger cat, even though she had scratched 
him once when he was trying to teach her to shake 
hands. He took out of his pocket the doughnut 
Hephzibah Preston had given him in the kitchen be¬ 
fore he left, but he had no appetite. What was the 
matter ? He liked doughnuts, but his throat refused 
to swallow and his eyes smarted. 

Then suddenly the red cow with the white hairs 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


17 


in her left eyebrow ceased her grass sniffing and 
sauntered casually in Stephen’s direction. She 
didn’t look at him, and she pretended, with mean 
diplomacy, that she was only bent on the most harm¬ 
less of strolls. Stephen stood up and regarded her. 
He remembered Zeke told him to holler—but the 
sound that came from his mouth would have intimi¬ 
dated not even a meadowlark. Then he brandished 
his stick, but the cow ignored him and came on— 
slowly, inexorably. Perhaps she heard the gurgle 
of the muddy water in the ditch. Perhaps she was 
as innocent at heart as her affectations were intended 
to lead one to suppose, but Stephen was in no mood 
for trifling. 

“Go back, go back,” he shouted. “Go back, go 
b—” his voice was now almost a sob. “Go, go, 
go-” 

On came the red cow with the white hairs in her 
eyebrow. She was like fate, like impending catas¬ 
trophe, like disaster. It was the end. She would 
kill him first and then plunge into the muddy creek 
and drown. What would Zeke say? Stephen was 
sobbing openly now. 

Suddenly there came the sound of yipping, high 
pitched and joyous. In the dead leaves and dusty 



l8 


THE SHINING ROAD 


golden rod that bordered the ditch was a tremendous 
sniffing and scurrying. With one splendid leap the 
dog cleared the ditch and trotted over to the boy, 
his body wriggling with the pleasure of anticipated 
welcome. Stephen had not moved. In his hand 
he still held the staff of discipline, but his lips were 
blue with fright and terror spoke from his eyes. 

Perhaps it is true that all animals possess the 
gift of divination, or perhaps from among his gen¬ 
erous and somewhat cosmopolitan list of ancestors 
the ghost of a long dead shepherd dog arose. Or 
perhaps an all-seeing Providence determines that 
no human being shall endure a preponderance of 
agony. At any rate, a deliverer was sent to Stephen. 

For a second the dog stopped and pondered. 
Then, with a tremendous bluff of authority, he ran 
yapping and jumping toward the insurgent. There 
was a tone in his yapping that meant business. The 
red cow paused and considered. What was this 
alien creature that intercepted one’s pleasure? For 
a moment the cow weighed the possibilities of ignor¬ 
ing this stranger and continuing as she had threat¬ 
ened. But the stranger nipped at her ankles and 
jumped at her throat. Behind that high-pitched 
barking, too, was a note of determination. The red 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


19 


cow capitulated. Not without a show of dignity 
she turned in a clumsy circle and retreated, pretend¬ 
ing this had all along been her intention. But no¬ 
body was fooled. The ghost of that collie ancestor 
had come into his own. 

Gay with his easy triumph, the dog came scamper¬ 
ing back. In a paroxysm of friendliness he wriggled 
and wagged his tail and licked Stephen’s hands with 
a very wet, red tongue. Out of a rough, uncordial 
world had been sent to him a friend. After the 
first noisy greetings were finished Stephen sat down 
on the stone and broke his doughnut in half. With 
one gulp the dog bolted his share and then sat, 
panting and grinning, a jolly light in his amber 
eyes, while Stephen ate his. Curious how much 
easier it was to swallow. With a sense almost of 
pleasure he discovered he was hungry. Pretty soon 
it would be dinner time, and he would divide again 
with his guest. Perhaps he might build a bonfire, 
too, down in the ditch where Zeke would never see 
it. Life began to hold no end of possibilities for 
entertainment. Things were undoubtedly looking 
up. 

All afternoon the boy and the dog romped to¬ 
gether. There are ever so many games one can 


20 


THE SHINING ROAD 


play with a dog with imagination: retrieving, tag, 
and hide and seek. The stranger possessed a marked 
talent, too, for searching out field mice and gophers. 
Best of all, one had never to worry about the critters. 
Even the red cow with the white hairs kept her 
distance. As evening approached, Stephen wondered 
if the stranger would be leaving. Did he have a 
home somewhere and chores to do and a master? 
But the dog appeared strangely foot-loose. Perhaps 
nobody owned him! With a throb of joy that 
fairly choked, Stephen wondered if Zeke wouldn’t 
keep him. But he knew Zeke. The stranger had 
an appetite of Gargantuan dimensions. Anyway, 
Zeke would say, what good was a lazy, yipping 
dog? Zeke would never understand how helpful he 
was with the cows. His services were indeed 
imperative. 

Aided and abetted by the stranger, Stephen mar¬ 
shaled his flock of seven at sundown and drove 
them, ambling and contented, down the lane toward 
the barn. Having the stranger along was like having 
Zeke—only a thousand times pleasanter. What was 
he to do? Hephzibah might understand but Zeke 
never. 

Stricken with despair at the thought of losing 


“ STRANGER—MY DOG ” 


2 1 


his friend, Stephen’s brain considered and rejected 
every possibility. Then came an inspiration. In 
the corner of the pen where they used to keep the 
pigs was an old shack. It was dirty and it leaked, 
but it would have to do for to-night. To-morrow 
he would fix it up, someway. The stranger would 
have to sleep there. Zeke would never know. At 
the corner of the lane Stephen deserted his charge 
and he and the dog cut across the plowed field to 
the old pigpen. 

“Here boy, here boy,” he exhorted. 

The stranger was skeptical. He sniffed and 
fidgeted. Stephen was in a panic for fear Zeke 
would discover the wandering cows. Perhaps there 
was in his voice this time an urging that could not 
be resisted. 

“Here boy, here boy,” he coaxed. “I’ll bring you 
some supper. I promise.” 

The stranger hesitated, then he entered, gingerly. 
Stephen closed the sagging door of the shed and 
raced back. The rough field hurt his feet, and it 
seemed that his lungs would bleed with the pain of 
breathlessness. But he was happy. Even Zeke’s 
ill nature because he was late could not dampen his 
spirits 


22 


THE SHINING ROAD 


After supper that night he helped Hephzibah dear 
up. Zeke had removed his shoes and, his stockinged 
feet on the rounds of the hickory rocker, he perused 
the columns of the “Green Mountain Sentinel” by 
the light of the one kerosene lamp. 

In the midst of the plate-scraping, Stephen hesi¬ 
tated. “That’s a pretty good bone, Aunt Hephzi¬ 
bah, ain’t it?” he queried. 

“Yes, don’t throw it away. We’ll use it for 
soup,” she said. 

Stephen waited a minute. “I—I was just won¬ 
derin’ if I couldn’t just have it,” he ventured finally. 
With instinctive artistry of appeal, he smiled at her. 
“It’s a secret,” he admitted, “but I might tell you.” 
With appraising eyes he regarded Zeke. Zeke was 
absorbed in that mysterious and dull thing, the 
printed word. “Come on,” he whispered. “It’s in 
the pigpen.” 

Out into the windy, moonlight night she followed 
him where thin, gusty clouds caught up with a pale 
moon, enveloped it and then raced on. The dead 
leaves scurried around their feet and the weather 
vane on the barn rattled and banged as it swung 
about in an ecstasy of motion. A curious feeling of 
excitement and comradeship filled the heart of Heph- 


“ STRANGER—MY 000” 


23 


zibah Preston. She was party to an adventure, a 
secret. 

“It’s a dog,” gasped Stephen, “a black dog with 
curly hair and quite long ears. It’s not at all afraid 
of cows, Aunt Hephzibah. I think I like it best of 
any one—next to you.” 

Hephzibah became from that moment an ally and 
a conspirator. “I hope he don’t bark,” she whis¬ 
pered. “Zeke might hear.” 

“He’s a very smart dog,” Stephen rallied. “I 
think we might explain it to him.” 

That “we” was the last stroke in diplomacy. 
Hephzibah capitulated. 

In the days that followed the stranger led a 
curious but satisfactory existence. He was fed 
almost enough, housed cautiously if not too well, 
and adored with all the passion of a starved affec¬ 
tion. For Stephen the long hours in the meadow 
were shorn of their terror and loneliness. Rainy 
days, when the cows were not driven to pasture, 
one could always escape to the deserted pigpen and 
play in the shack. There was much in the shack 
that had to be remodeled, and carpentering is a 
pleasure, even under less agreeable circumstances. 

The stranger proved to be a dog of character 


24 


THE SHINING ROAD 


as well as intelligence. He could be trusted absolutely 
to guard the seven critters while Stephen raced half 
a mile down the road to Trim Hiatt’s apple orchard 
or while he investigated a squirrel family in the 
hickory grove across the street. No power under 
heaven, it seemed, could lure the stranger from his 
post once he was charged with his mission. A 
dozen chipmunks might disport themselves in the 
dust of the highway, but the dog remained obdurate 
at his command. If Zeke could have known it, 
the characteristics he admired most were incorpor¬ 
ated in the soul of this vagabond and outlaw, this 
smuggled-in tenant of his pigpen, this poacher upon 
the scrapings of his table. 

The time when Zeke would discover the stranger’s 
existence was a thing as inevitable as the first 
blizzard of winter, but neither Stephen nor Heph- 
zibah liked to think of it. The days slid by and 
nothing happened. Perhaps nothing would happen. 
Still they all had a feeling this was only a transient 
paradise. A flaming sword—or a pitchfork— 
would some day drive the stranger back onto the 
streaming highway from which he had come. 

The 23d of November was destined to become 
a day of momentous change. In the first place, 


“ STRANGER—MY DOG ” 


25 


Stephen was to go to school. The old crossroads 
schoolhouse had been burned that autumn, and the 
new one, splendidly equipped with weather vane 
and lightning rods, had only been completed. Ac¬ 
cordingly, another three months had of necessity 
been added to the summer vacation. But if Ste¬ 
phen went to school, he could not drive the cows 
up to Section Four. The laws of physics prevent 
even an agile boy from being in two places at once. 
And, thirdly, what was to become of the stranger? 
Without Stephen to hide and protect him, he would 
certainly be discovered and driven away during the 
hours when Stephen was learning the multiplication 
table and the chief products exported from Chile. 
Something would have to happen. And it did. 

On the evening of the 21st Stephen and Hephzibah 
were doing the dishes, chatting as they only did 
when Zeke was out of the room. Zeke had pulled 
on his heavy boots and gone to the barn, they sup¬ 
posed. Zeke was the sort of man who liked to 
reassure himself of the security of all those things 
of which he was already certain. He saw that the 
door to the cowshed was latched,. that the buggy 
had been pulled up into the barn, that the hay had 
been pitched down for the horses. 


26 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“Never hurt to be too certain,” he used to mutter 
to himself in extenuation. 

When Zeke was out of the room Stephen was 
permitted to wind the clock. It was a splendid 
clock with jolly weights that swayed from side to 
side while one pulled them up slowly with the aid 
of a great iron key. 

“ ‘Hickory, dickory, dock/ ” he chanted. “Do 
you know that one, Aunt Hephzibah?” 

A glow of pleasure swept over her face. “Of 
course, ‘The mouse ran up the clock.’ Your turn 
now.” 

“ ‘The clock struck one.’ Now you,” he com¬ 
manded. 

“ ‘The mouse ran down/ ” she followed. 

“ ‘Hickory, dick—’ ” 

From the darkness of the night outside came a 
startled yelp of pain, succeeded by another and an¬ 
other and then silence. The boy and the woman 
looked at each other in a panic of fear. 

“The stranger,” Stephen whispered. “Zeke’s 
found him.” 

They both strained to hear. Finally the sound 
of Zeke’s boots on the gravel came to them. Heph¬ 
zibah was the first to speak. 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


27 


“Don’t say anythin’,” she cautioned. “I’ll do the 
talkin’. D’you mind now?” The look in her eyes 
startled him. “Ye mind now,” she repeated. “You 
don’t know anythin’ about that dog.” Hephzibah 
put a dish towel into his hands and turned back to 
the sink. 

Zeke stamped up the steps and opened the door. 
A gust of air whipped the kerosene lamp into a 
truant flare of brightness. On a peg Zeke hung 
up his coat and muffler, and then tramped over to 
the rocker and removed his boots. 

“Funny thing,” he growled as he tugged at the 
heavy leather, stiff now from many wettings, “heard 
somethin’ scratchin’ around in the old pig shed. 
Went over and opened the door. It was a mongrel 
cur. Must have got in somehow and the door blew 
shut on it. I set him about his business all right.” 
There was a silence while Zeke tugged and puffed. 
“Won’t have no mangy cur hangin’ around my 
place.” 

His promise to Hephzibah forgotten, Stephen con¬ 
fronted his tormentor with blazing eyes. “He wasn’t 
no mangy cur,” he stormed. “He—he was a good 
dog. He had black hair—all smooth, except for 
just a few burrs. He was, I think, the nicest dog 


28 


THE SHINING ROAD 


that ever lived. He is my dog, my dog.” His voice 
caught in a sob that threatened to put an end to his 
eloquence. “My dog, all mine, I tell you. You 
got no call to touch him.” The boy’s whole figure 
quivered with rage and misery. 

Perhaps the fervent valiancy of this protest 
amused Zeke, for he only chuckled gruffly. “You 
mean he was your dog,” he corrected. “He was 
goin’ west when I last seen him—rapidly. Must 
be ’bout halfway to Denver now.” 

With a cry of agony the boy flung himself out 
of the door and raced toward the pig shed, call¬ 
ing and sobbing. There was no bark of answer, 
only the wind and the inane cry of a hoot- 
owl. Again and again he called. Suddenly he 
heard footsteps and he turned around, instantly 
on the defensive. It was only Hephzibah. She 
put her arm across his shoulders and drew him 
to her. 

“No use callin’ any more now,” she said. “But 
he’ll come back, you mark my word. We’ll just 
leave the door of the shed open. You see, he’ll 
come back to it. Why, he ain’t even finished his 
supper.” 

Still sobbing, the boy clung to her. “D’you think 


“ STRANGER—MY DOG ” 


29 


he’ll come back? Do you really think so?” he 
pleaded. 

“Of course he will.” Whatever doubts she might 
have had did not alter the conviction in her voice. 
Gently she drew him back to the house. At the 
back porch he stopped her. 

“Aunt Hephzibah, about that dog,” he began, “I 
said he was all mine—” There was a moment of 
silence. “Well, he ain’t—exactly. He’s part yours, 
a’least half part—when he comes back.” 

“Thank you, Hezekiah,” she answered gravely. 
“Now come in, dear.” It had been a long time indeed 
since Hephzibah Preston had called any one dear. 

Morning came, curiously gray and still. The sky 
was a steely white through which the sun made but 
a feeble protest. Farmer families are abroad early 
and the first twilight had scarcely lifted before 
Stephen was dressed and on his way to the pig 
shed. Though he relied hopefully on Hephzibah’s 
prediction, he did not call his dog. Slowly even he 
approached the shed and pushed open the door which 
the wind had blown shut again. The stranger was 
not there. Well, it was very early. He would come 
back later. He would come over to the meadow, 
of course, like that first day. 


30 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Stephen was in a fret of impatience to be off. 
He could scarcely finish the bowl of mush and milk 
Hephzibah insisted upon his eating. On the back 
porch Zeke sniffed the air and looked up at the 
sky. 

“Dura fool weather/’ he grumbled. “If it weren’t 
only the 22d of November, I should say we were 
let in for a storm, a hell-raisin’, cattle-scorchin’ 
blizzard.” 

“I reckon maybe ye better not send Hezekiah 
out with the critters then,” said Hephzibah as with 
squinted eyes she appraised the lowering heavens. 

Hephzibah’s caution was the better part of valor, 
but Zeke had planned to make some repairs in the 
cow shed, and it suited him to have the cattle out 
of the way. Unlike most farmers, Zeke possessed 
a curiously unflexible nature. Instead of adapting 
himself to the exigencies of weather and climate, 
he defied them. Zeke had a genius for making life 
difficult—in the name of the most excellent of 
virtues. 

Down the lane where rattled the dried stalks of 
milkweed and golden rod Stephen marshaled his 
flock of seven. This would be his last trip, for 
to-morrow school began. He was not afraid of 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


3 i 


the cows now. He was almost casual. The stranger 
had taught him that, the gay, rollicking, generous- 
spirited stranger. And now he was gone. 

In the meadow the boy stationed himself by the 
broken fence and the cattle scattered over the field. 
With the mounting sun the wind had risen and 
dirty-looking snow clouds lumbered across the sky. 
Zeke was right. It was durn fool weather. 

With the warning of only a scattering band of 
snow flake outriders, the storm charged down. In 
every rural community there grow up legends; about 
the drouth of 1880, or the year when the locusts 
came and ate up even the hardwood palings of the 
fences, or the spring of the big rains. The storm 
which began on the morning of November 22d be¬ 
came another such legend in the folklore history 
of Green Mountain, Iowa. There was something 
stupendous about it, something barbaric. Into a 
country of tame pastures and slow rivers shouted 
the spirit of the wilderness. The outlaws of the 
trail, the pirates of the north seas, the buccaneers 
of the king’s road came back to life in that tempest. 
Sweeping in great waves of white, tormented into 
whirlpools, whipping forward, retreating, mad with 
a thousand freaks of wind, the snow fell. 


32 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Zeke, at work in the cow shed, heard the first 
tumult. Grumbling, he pushed open the door and 
looked out. There was no denying it now. The 
blizzard had come. All thought of his carpentering 
vanished, he must bring in his cows. In a storm 
like this they would be mad things, blinded and 
whipped by the snow. Struggling against the gale, 
almost as though it were a physical thing, he strained 
ahead. He was crazy to have sent the boy out to-day. 
What could fifty Stephens do in an emergency like 
this? Then he thought of the broken fence and 
the ditch. If the cows got to milling around, it 
was inevitable that they would plunge down the 
slippery sides. What a fool he had been never to 
have mended that fence! With the bitterness of 
which only a just man is capable Zeke flayed him¬ 
self. He had been so thrifty he would starve to 
death for his pains. 

At the gate from the lane to the meadow stood 
Stephen, vainly urging the red cow with the white 
hairs to start homeward. If he could only get a 
few of them started, he believed, the rest would 
follow. The storm had taken a mean advantage 
of him, for the cows had been scattered all over 
the meadow. 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


33 


“Lead on with this one/* Zeke shouted. “I’ll 
round up the others.” 

“Ye can’t, ye can’t,” he screamed, his voice a 
shrill piping above the wind. “They’re all over 
everywheres.” 

“Any over by the ditch?” Zeke shouted. 

“I ’spect so, maybe,” the boy answered. “Seems 
like the’re about a thousand of them cows now.” 

Suddenly over the voice of the storm sounded a 
distant barking, becoming each moment nearer and 
nearer. Down the lane to the meadow a dog came 
bounding. Tail straight out, he seemed scarcely to 
touch the earth as he drove onward. 

“Stranger,” the boy shouted. “Stranger, my 
dog!” 

The dog had reached him now, and Stephen 
dropped down on his knees, his arms around the 
beast’s neck, while the dog squirmed and yipped with 
joy and lapped his face with a wet, red tongue. 
Then Stephen caught the eye of the man beside him. 
He stumbled to his feet. Here was his chance to 
make Zeke acknowledge the dog. 

“He kin help,” the boy shouted. “He kin help. 
He’s helped me lots of times. He knows all about 


cows. 


34 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Zeke was skeptical. An untrained dog can bring 
panic to a herd. Stephen read the hesitation in 
the man’s face. He was desperate for a method 
of establishing the dog in Zeke’s good graces. 

“The ditch,” he pleaded. “Let him stand guard. 
He’ll see nothin’ happens. I know, he’s done it 
afore.” 

This was no time to waste words, and Zeke 
yielded. 

“All right,” he said. “Take him over there, then 
come back and start these cows on. I’ll follow 
with the rest.” 

Stephen did not wait to answer. Half blinded 
by the snow, the boy and dog raced on till they 
found the ditch and the broken fence. “Stay here,” 
Stephen ordered. “For your life, don’t you move. 
Good-by.” 

Twice the boy looked around, straining his eyes, 
but the stranger was not visible, his body swallowed 
up in the whiteness of the storm. But a sharp bark 
and then another told him that the dog had not 
moved. He could be trusted. 

Returning to the lane, Stephen found the red 
cow and two others. Zeke had ordered him to start 
on. “Call my dog when you go,” he shouted. “Hi, 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


35 


bos, hi—quick there.” Stephen blustered and 
snapped his whip, just as he had watched Zeke do. 
He would show Zeke he could play a man’s part, 
even though he were only a boy and placed out. 

By the time Zeke drove the last of the cows into 
the shed the road to the meadow had become fairly 
impassable. Great barricades of drifts intersected 
it, between which the ground lay naked and brown. 
Like all prairie blizzards, it was a storm full of 
freaks. At the kitchen window Stephen and Heph- 
zibah waited for Zeke and the stranger. 

“Don’t you b’lieve he’ll let me keep him now?” 
the boy pleaded. “He helped a lot—just like a man, 
or, anyways, another boy.” 

“P’raps so,” Hephzibah pacified. “Now, don’t 
get fidgety. Wait and see.” In her heart she did 
not think the thing unlikely. Zeke possessed a 
curious streak of justness. If the dog had helped 
him, he in turn owed something to the dog. 

Zeke appeared at last, his face as bronzed from 
the wind as the skin of a sailor. But there followed 
no stranger. Stephen met him at the threshold, his 
eyes burning with the question. “Where’s my dog?” 
he cried. “The stranger, you didn’t leave him!” 

Zeke Preston was no actor. That first quick 


36 


THE SHINING ROAD 


look of surprise betrayed him. He had forgotten 
the dog! In the frantic haste to drive back the 
cattle, the last of his herd, it was no wonder he had 
not remembered that lonely sentinel. 

“He ain’t there now.” Zeke’s protest carried 
little conviction. “Like as not he’s skipped off down 
the road to Hiatt’s. Nothin’ but a cur,” he 
grumbled. 

“He’s out there now—in the storm. You forgot 
him and he’ll die!” The boy’s voice was hard, all 
the passion burned out now. With a face in which 
were graved lines too deep for any child he turned 
from them and walked to the window. One reaches 
a point beyond which it is impossible to suffer more. 
With a dried-up feeling in his heart the boy watched 
the tempest. In the kitchen he heard the snapping 
of the fire and the rattle of dishes. Hephzibah was 
getting the meal ready. Then the smell of food 
came to his nostrils. 

“Dinner’s on,” she said finally. “You better eat 
somethin’.” But she did not urge him. Hephzibah 
too knew the sharpness of first grief, for life had 
not dealt kindly with her either. 

Like prison days the hours dragged and the early 
winter twilight closed in. Finally Zeke dragged on 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


37 


his heavy boots, buttoned up his overcoat and pulled 
down his fur cap. 

“Where you goin’ ?” Hephzibah asked. 

“To the barn.” A whirl of snow swept in before 
he could slam the door behind him. 

If Hephzibah Preston had ever had any children 
of her own she might have known how to comfort 
Stephen. Finally she brought out the doughnut jar 
and the gooseberry jam. The gooseberry jam was 
very special. Stephen had tasted it only once. 

“Just try to eat a little snack of this,” she pleaded. 
There was something pathetic in her eagerness. 

Stephen looked at her and struggled to smile. “I 
couldn’t eat nothin’, Aunt Hephzibah,” he answered. 
“I jest couldn’t.” 

Hephzibah put back the best jam and rebuilt the 
fire. Then there was silence in the kitchen. 

“Zeke’s been gone a long time,” Hephzibah said 
finally. She went to the window and stared out 
into the darkness. “I believe the wind’s goin’ down 
some. And there’s goin’ to be a moon, too. Look, 
Stephen.” 

Listlessly he followed her to the window. What 
difference did it make if there was a moon or indeed 
if the sun should ever rise again? But he knew 


38 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Hephzibah was trying to be kind to him. With 
haggard eyes he stared at the garden, the barn, the 
low huddle of sheds beside it, the snow blocked 
lane to the meadow. 

For a long time he looked without seeing any¬ 
thing, then suddenly his eyes focused. Down the 
lane came a figure, lunging and unsteady. The boy’s 
eyes ached from the strain of concentration. The 
thing was moving nearer and nearer. Stephen 
caught his breath and his heart seemed to stop 
beating. With the first sound of footsteps on the 
porch, he flew to the door. The light of the lamp 
streamed into the darkness. There was Zeke with 
something in his arms, something heavy, for he 
bent under the weight. It was Zeke and—the 
stranger. 

“Warm up a blanket,” Zeke ordered, “and get 
out the rum bottle.” Almost tenderly he laid the 
dog down. “Not too near the stove,” he said, 
“there.” 

With nervous hands the woman and boy obeyed 
him. Zeke forced open the dog’s mouth and poured 
into it some of the liquid. Slowly the dog’s eyes 
flickered open and he sighed. Then his head flopped 
down again. Over him Zeke drew the warm blanket, 


“STRANGER—MY DOG” 


39 


and he held his hand close to the dog’s body. He 
was breathing, deep breaths of exhaustion. 

“He’s asleep,” said Zeke. He straightened up 
gingerly and caught hold of the table to steady him¬ 
self. “He was there, like you said, waitin’. I guess 
I didn’t find him none too soon. The snow had 
just about closed in.” He stopped suddenly and his 
face looked gray in the lamplight. “I guess I’ll 
have a little nip out of that bottle myself.” 

Timidly Stephen gave it to him and watched 
while he drank. The boy’s eyes went then to the 
sleeping stranger and slowly back to the man. As 
he gazed at Zeke the look of tenderness did not die 
out. It was a long moment before he spoke. 

“Well?” Zeke grunted. 

“You—must be awful brave.” 

The man smiled, a little wearily. 

Down on the floor Stephen lifted the head of the 
sleeping dog onto his knees and his hands caressed 
the curly, rough coat in an ecstacy of love. For a 
long time nobody said anything. Hephzibah finished 
getting supper, but this time she did not urge Ste¬ 
phen to eat. 

“The hamony’s pretty good to-night,” Zeke said 
finally. “When the dog wakes up we’ll give him a 


40 


THE SHINING ROAD 


bite, in some warm milk. T’won’t hurt him none, 
this outin’.” 

After a while the boy stood up and came slowly 
to Zeke’s chair. The old clock that had come from 
Vermont ticked off many seconds before he spoke. 
“Say,” he began, “I used to say this was my dog. 
Well, he ain’t. He’s half yours, and half hers and 
—half mine.” 

Zeke chuckled softly. “I ’low it’s a good thing 
you start goin’ to school to-morrow. What 
’rithmetic!” 


CHAPTER II 

THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 

H EPHZIBAH PRESTON scraped into the 
earthenware crock the leavings of the cottage 
cheese and johnny cake that would do for the chick¬ 
ens, rinsed out the dishpan and put on the shelves of 
the black walnut cupboard the supper plates and the 
cups, still warm from the washing. A thousand 
times she had washed and arranged them in a pile 
on the shelf, the heavy, cheap ones from the Green 
Mountain Emporium at the bottom, the delicate 
ones, adorned with fluted edges and tiny single 
roses, on the top. These plates had come all 
the way from Vermont when, long years before, 
Zeke Preston had sold the rocky farm, cupped deep 
in the hills, and come west to the land of broad 
pastures. 

From the table she picked up the scarlet cover by 
its four comers, so that the crumbs would not escape, 
and opened the door of the kitchen. Outside it 


41 


42 


THE SHINING ROAD 


was April. Over the fields hung the delicate low 
mist of early spring and the air was sweet with the 
fragrance of turned earth and new woodland. A 
pair of gluttonous sparrows, still awake, chirped 
and fluttered about the crumbs till a dog, bounding 
down the lane toward the farmhouse, scattered them 
into protesting flight. 

Ten feet behind the dog came the boy. He was 
out of breath, and the color still burned under his 
clear skin. “Gee,” he gasped as he reached the 
steps, ‘Til bet you’ve had supper a’ready.” 

Hephzibah Preston smiled at the ingenuousness 
of the boy’s remark. He was late, scandalously 
late, and he knew it, but his manner was splendidly 
casual. For a long second she watched him skepti¬ 
cally. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to bet against you,” she 
answered finally. 

An instant their eyes held each other, while the 
boy dug the point of his copper-toed boot into the 
soft earth of the path. “I’ll bet you saved somethin’ 
out fur me—anyways.” With native artistry of 
appeal he smiled at her. “And I’ll bet there’s pie.” 

Together they went into the kitchen. It was 
darker now and the boy lighted the big kerosene 
drip lamp that stood on the table. 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


43 


“Stephen,” she asked at last (he had finally pre¬ 
vailed upon her to omit the Old Testament Heze- 
kiah), “where was you?” 

“To Terschak’s.” 

Shielding her hand with a dish towel, she drew 
the plate of supper out of the oven. “It’s hot,” she 
warned. “Now eat it quick, ’fore Zeke comes—and 
leave somethin’ for Stranger.” 

Stephen made a rapid and equitable division of 
the fried mush and potatoes while the dog watched 
him, eyes blinking and mouth watering with expec¬ 
tation. 

Hephzibah shook the grate of the stove and took 
off her apron. Then she sat down in the hickory 
rocker that had been her mother’s. “What kept 
you ?” she finally demanded. 

For a minute he regarded her speculatively. His 
mood was expansive. “It’s a secret.” 

With wisdom of instinctive tact Hephzibah did 
not press him. 

“It’s a secret,” he went on, “but I might tell you. 
It’s for the exercises over to school.” His eyes 
were shining, and the old-fashioned, three-pronged 
fork hung now, neglected, from the rim of his 
plate. 


44 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“Stevie,” she cautioned, “finish your supper. 
Why, you ain’t et nothin’ yet.” 

Stephen was like that. The blood in his veins 
was not Preston blood, slow pulsed and phlegmatic, 
Hephzibah Preston did not understand him, his 
strange intensities, his brave enthusiasms, his des¬ 
pondencies. He had a mind more subtle, finer 
grained than hers. Perhaps back in that past, of 
which none of them were sure, lived a race of poets 
and heroes. There were beauty and laughter and 
tragedy for his inheritance. Hephzibah Preston 
could not analyze him, but she loved him with the 
shy affection of a childless woman, and that love 
gave her wisdom. 

“Drink your milk too,” she amended. 

“How can I eat and tell you both ’fore Zeke comes 
in?” he demanded. 

His logic was relentless. “Well, eat now, and 
you kin come out to the barn with me afterward to 
see if the new calf’s warm enough.” 

“Zeke ought to look after the critters hisself,” 
the boy contended. “Why, you and me and Stranger 
has got more knack with cows than he has.” 

At the mention of his name the dog, stretched 
out now before the stove, flopped his tail sharply 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


45 


against the bare floor, and the boy and the woman 
exchanged a quick smile of appreciation. Stephen 
dropped down on his knees and rolled the dog’s 
head gently from side to side. 

“Gee, he’s an understanding dog, ain’t he, Aunt 
Hephzibah? I reckon I jest couldn’t stand it if 
anythin’ should happen to him.” 

She smiled down at him gravely. “Nothin’ will,” 
she said, and she hoped she was speaking the truth. 

Zeke was long in the barn that evening. The 
cow with the new calf was still feverish, and Zeke 
arranged and rearranged the clean straw for her bed 
and the rough gunny-sack cover. It was true Zeke 
had no talent for critters, such as was possessed by 
Dolfi Terschak, Si Smart’s hired man, or even by 
Smart himself. Another man than Zeke would have 
sent for Dolfi, with his gentle black eyes and strong, 
blunted fingers. Dolfi was the witch doctor of 
Green Mountain, Iowa. Some farmers are like that, 
wise with a curious, intuitive knowledge. An igno¬ 
rant Bohemian immigrant, he could neither diagnose 
nor explain, but he could cure. 

Zeke wanted Dolfi now, but the witch doctor was 
Smart’s hired man, and Zeke owed money to Smart. 
Besides, Zeke was no man to ask favors. In a 


46 


THE SHINING ROAD 


curious, dumb way he felt every man’s hand was 
against him, and his hand was against every man. 
Into the friendly Middle West he brought a tradi¬ 
tion of struggle, too grim and too deep to forget. 
Life on that barren New England farm had etched 
with the acid of poverty something bitter and last¬ 
ing on to his soul. There he had farmed as a man 
does to keep from starvation. In Iowa one farmed 
to grow rich. 

Men held more land that they could cultivate. 
They sowed and reaped with shameless extrava¬ 
gance, but the land forgave them. Only Zeke 
couldn’t forgive. Most of all he hated Smart, the 
squire of the county. Smart broke all the canons 
of thrift and good sense and each year added acres 
to his lands and cattle to his herds. About Si Smart 
there was something almost magnificent. He had 
Come out a pioneer, ahead of the railroad, leaving a 
prosperous up state New York farm to the care of 
a less adventurous brother. Upon the unbroken 
acres of rolling prairie he had staked his dollars 
and his dreams and his youth. 

One cannot pioneer with a half soul and succeed. 
Si Smart succeeded. Everything he touched yielded 
him profit. He was like the king of the Golden 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


47 


River to whose land the locusts never came, or 
drouth, or flood. The whole county paid tribute to 
him. He was a veritable Cedric the Saxon, and 
Zeke was a Gurth with the brass ring of debt sol¬ 
dered around his neck. 

If the cow died, so would the calf, and the rent 
was due on the forty acres Zeke leased from the 
squire. The barn was deep in shadow now and silent 
except for the short, harsh breathing of the sick 
beast. Zeke busied himself with a dozen inconse¬ 
quential tasks. His anxiety drove him into an aim¬ 
less activity which, in his heart, he knew to be futile. 

In the kitchen Stephen washed up his dishes and 
brought in the wood from the shed. Then he drew 
up a chair to the table. The light from the lamp 
showed the delicate health of his skin and the way 
his hair still curled in the nape of his neck and above 
his ears. He was small for fourteen, but possessed 
of the sort of energy one seldom finds in a country 
lad, a nervous restlessness, prophetic both of success 
and of failure. 

“I reckon I better tell you all,” he began, “ ’cause I 
want you should ask somethin’ for me from Zeke.” 

She looked at him sharply, and a shade of anxiety 
clouded her face. 


48 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“We’re buildin’ somethin’ over to Si Smart’s old 
cow shed,” he began. “It’s a surprise for the last 
day of school exercises. Nobody knows but me and 
Bill White and Red and the Terschak kids and 
the dog.” 

“Quite a bunch for to keep one secret,” Hephzibah 
smiled. “What you buildin’ ?” 

His eyes shining with excitement, he waited a 
minute for the dramatic effect: “A—chariot!” 

There was blank amazement on Hephzibah’s face. 
With curious eyes she watched him. Were all boys 
like this one, or had she, indeed, three years ago, 
brought a strangeling home with her from the 
orphan asylum in Des Moines? 

“A chariot?” she echoed. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “You see, it’s like this. The 
exercises is to be out of doors before the school- 
house. First there’ll be singin’—with the girls and 
the kids,” he explained, “then speeches and poems 
from the poetry book. Then Bill White’s goin’ to 
give a oration from Shakespeare—and that’s where 
the chariot comes in.” 

Perhaps this was lucid, but Hephzibah remained 
unenlightened. “I don’t see,” she began. 

“ ’Course not,” he conceded. “I ain’t through 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


49 


yet. His oration is a Roman senator's speech—that's 
what they called the Eyetalians a long time ago— 
and he wears a toga and a wreath around his head, 
and we come drivin’ up in a chariot, like they used to 
then—and he jumps out and gives his oration." 

Hephzibah shook her head dubiously. “Seems 
kinda silly to me," she said finally. 

It was silly, perhaps, but not to Stephen or to 
Red or Bill White or the Terschaks. Nothing is 
foolish that's make-believe, if it’s believed in; play¬ 
ing Indian, or pirates, or Robin Hood, or Shake¬ 
speare. In the crossroads schoolhouse near Green 
Mountain, Iowa, the oldest of the children—for the 
school was ungraded—had read Julius Caesar, and 
because Jacob Sears, who was working his way 
through law school, believed it was great, so did the 
fourteen rangy, freckled-face farmer lads whom he 
taught. Jacob Sears, gentle and idealistic, may 
never have become a great barrister, but he was a 
great teacher. Into a dreary crossroads school he 
brought that something which may be called appre¬ 
ciation. Long after they had forgotten his name, 
the rangy lads who had been Jacob Sear’s pupils 
retained the imprint of his spirit and still cared for 
the things he loved. 


50 


THE SHINING ROAD 


On the bottom shelf of the cupboard, next to the 
Bible, Stephen found his history book, torn and dog¬ 
eared. With eager fingers he turned over the pages 
till he found an old stone cut of Hadrian’s chariot. 

“Here,” he explained, tfie book spread open on 
the table in front of Hephzibah. “This here’s a 
chariot. Bill’s brought two wheels off his father’s 
old spring wagon and a tongue, and the Terschaks 
have got some boards, and Red’s father’s goin’ to 
loan us a team—just for the afternoon—and now, 
here’s the part that’s important, I want Zeke should 
loan us his double harness.” He had no way of 
knowing the pleading that burned in his eyes. “We 
just gotta have one, Aunt Hephzibah, or the whole 
thing will fall through. D’you think he might, 
maybe?” he questioned. “D’you think he might?” 

Hephzibah looked away from the earnestness in 
his face. Why must youth care so intensely, why 
should it so recklessly court disappointment? 

“You see. Aunt Hephzibah, I gotta special reason 
for askin’—” He stopped again, realizing in some 
vague way how clumsy and dangerous words may 
be. “You see, some of the fellahs think we’re poor 
and unsuccessful and that Zeke’s tight besides. 
Then there’s somethin’ else,” he went on, “and this 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


5i 


is hard to explain, even to you. You see, everybody 
knows I was placed out, and that makes me sorta 
different. I thought if Zeke would do somethin' 
for me once—like other boys' parents do—it would 
sorta make me seem more regular ” He stopped 
suddenly, embarrassed and shy. “I dunno as I 
ought to have said that—even to you." 

Hephzibah Preston understood. She too knew 
the misery of being different, for neither she nor 
Zeke had fitted into the new country. 

She knew Zeke would think the chariot was fool¬ 
ishness, even as she did. Besides, she knew Zeke 
was worried. “I don’t know, Stevie," she said, “you 
could ask him. But ask him quiet like and polite, 
and don't explain so much, like you did to me." 

She had little faith in Zeke’s sympathy for 
pageantry. In her heart she knew she should spare 
both Zeke and Stephen the clash that was surely 
impending. There was only a thousandth chance 
Zeke would yield. Hephzibah took it—and lost. 

One glance at the heavy, work-weary face of her 
husband as he entered the kitchen convinced her the 
chariot would be only a phantom vehicle. He was 
dejected and worried, and his ill nature vented itself 
on the boy. He suspected Stephen had stopped off 


52 


THE SHINING ROAD 


at Smart's, on the way home from school, to play 
with the Terschaks—and Si Smart was his enemy. 
Besides, Dolfi Terschak had come neither from 
Vermont nor New York, hence his progeny, the 
number of which was legion, belonged outside the 
pale. Zeke considered the Terschaks “durned te¬ 
rmers” and no fit associates, even for a boy who 
has been placed out. 

“Go to bed,” he growled at Stephen. 

The lad jumped. “Could I ask you somethin' 
first, Uncle Zeke?” he pleaded. 

Zeke's eyebrows drew into a bristling line across 
his forehead. 

“It’s for the loan of the double harness,” he sped 
on, “jest for half a day. It’s for—a secret purpose.” 

Zeke’s irritation cannot be said to be unjustified. 
He had only one double harness, and he needed it. 
Zeke was no rich squire like Si Smart. His be¬ 
longings were few. Besides, something might hap¬ 
pen to his loan, and Zeke possessed no margin of 
resource to cover accidents. Stephen knew this. 
Could the boy be mad, or just impudent? 

“Git out of this room and git to bed,” Zeke 
shouted. “Had about enough of your nonsense for 
one day.” 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


53 


A hot flush stained the boy’s cheeks. “It ain’t 
nonsense,” he shouted. “You got no call to say it’s 
nonsense.” Behind the bravado lurked tears of 
anger and disappointment. 

“Stephen.” Hephzibah’s word became a com¬ 
mand. “Go to bed.” 

For a second his defiance still burned—-but Heph- 
zibah seldom commanded. His shoulders drooped. 
“Gee,” he stumbled and a half sob caught in his 
throat, “gee, you’re tightwads, both of you.” 

This was a lie, and he knew it, but the bitterness 
of childhood disappointment is hard to bear. 

Up in his gable room he stared for a long time 
at the patch of moonlight on the unpainted bare 
floor. He would have to tell the boys he had failed 
—he who had been the prime mover. At last there 
came footsteps on the stairs. It was Hephzibah. 

“Awake still ?” she whispered. 

His eyes stared up at her. “ ’Course,” he 
answered. 

She sat down on the edge of the bed, a little 
timidly. “Couldn’t you see it was best you shouldn’t 
worry Zeke?” she said finally. 

For a long time there was silence. 

“Stevie?” 


54 


THE SHINING ROAD 


A sob, choking, unrestrained, hideous, broke the 
stillness. 

With a sudden tenderness she leaned over and 
stroked the head buried deep in the pillow: “Stevie, 
don’t cry.” 

Again there was silence, then the head turned 
slowly on the pillow: “I ain’t.” 

“Maybe somethin’ will happen,” she comforted— 
“somethin’ you ain’t expectin’.” 

“—Maybe.” 

And it did. 

Country schools in Iowa closed early, for labor 
was scarce, and even a boy of fourteen could become 
a hand. Hours long, on a slant-seated plow, these 
youngsters rode while the blade rolled back the great 
furrows of earth slowly. Slowly. When the deli¬ 
cate yellow green corn appeared they rode again on 
the cultivators. This is arduous work, for the false 
step of a horse or any bungling when the team 
wheels at the end of the row means irreparable 
damage. Being a boy on a farm in Iowa was a 
solemn business in those days—as the deep-etched 
faces and work-calloused hands of the men they be¬ 
came bear witness. 

Accordingly, exercises at the crossroads school- 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


55 


house were scheduled for Friday afternoon, early 
that April, and Friday morning was a half holiday, 
devoted to preparation. 

Across the fields toward Smart’s tramped Stephen 
and the Stranger. It was a gray day, dreary with 
the promise of more rain, and the boy’s footsteps 
dragged. Hopefully the dog barked up at him and 
with elaborate good nature laid a stick at his feet. 
Stephen ignored the invitation. Even the capture 
of a chipmunk, wearing still his winter coat of 
glossy fur, failed to arouse either interest or 
admiration. 

Stephen was desperate. If only he hadn’t thought 
up the chariot idea and offered Zeke’s harness! For 
a general to surrender is a sorry business. He 
could not admit yet he had failed. Something must 
happen. His pride and his dictatorship were at 
stake. 

At the crest of the hill a bend of the road brought 
him in sight of Smart’s acres, the windbreak of 
cedar hedge to the north, the pleasant brick house, 
built like the one he had left in New York State, 
the great red barns for the hay, the grain cribs, the 
Terschaks’ cottage, and the long, low sheds for the 
cattle. Unknown to Si Smart, the last of these 


56 


THE SHINING ROAD 


sheds housed a wooden chariot, designed after a 
stone cut of the proud car of Hadrian. 

Stephen came in the front driveway and walked 
past the house toward the barn. Smart’s hay barn 
was always an adventure. It was big and shadowy 
and sweet-smelling. Pigeons nested in the cupola 
and swallows clustered under the high eaves. Just 
to postpone going to the cow shed Stephen and the 
dog turned in at the door, the Stranger already snif¬ 
fing eagerly at a suspicious hole under the harness 
racks. Idly the boy followed him, diverted by the 
dog’s excitement. Then his eyes focused. There, 
not two feet before him, hung a tangled paradise of 
harness—old and rusty and unpolished, new and 
resplendent, with nickel trimmings and brass 
buckles. 

For a second he hesitated, and his heart pounded 
in his throat. Then he looked around sharply. He 
was alone. With eager fingers he appraised the 
straps and made a selection. It was a new harness, 
and the leather felt like satin to his fingers. Tuck¬ 
ing it under his arm, he ran out of the stable and 
around to the shed. 

The Terschaks were there already, brown-eyed 
and docile, Red was bringing the horses over from 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


57 


his father’s pasture, and Bill White arrived, the 
toga rolled tightly under his arm. Into a pile of 
shavings Stephen tossed the harness; he hated some 
way to touch it, to look at it. What was the matter ? 
It was beautiful harness, and he would return it 
right after the exercises. Nobody would be the 
wiser. 

Slowly Bill unrolled the toga, arduously executed 
for him by his sister, and his brow was thunderous. 
With blazing eyes he looked at Stephen. “I ain’t 
goin’ to wear it,” he threatened. “Looks jest like 
a girl’s dress.” 

This was insurrection, but without doubt Bill 
had a case. “Well, it ain’t,” Stephen argued. “All 
the Romans usta wear ’em, like the picture in the 
book.” 

“Then you wear it,” Bill retorted, “if you think 
it’s so elegant.” 

“But I ain’t making the oration,” Stephen argued. 

Stephen would have been delighted to be the 
star actor. Indeed, the only reason Bill had been 
chosen was because his voice had already attained 
a stolid and unflinching bass. 

Bill White was fighting against the wall now. 
“I’d die sooner ’an wear that toga.” There was no 


58 


THE SHINING ROAD 


mistaking the conviction in his voice. “But I’ll 
kill somebody else first.” 

The situation was saved by the arrival of Red, 
astride a plowhorse and leading another, head down 
and dispirited, by a halter. It was time to start for 
school, and there was still much to be accomplished. 
Stephen enjoyed the drama of such occasions as 
these when, for a few brief moments, he tasted the 
joys of dictatorship. The boy was a miniature 
Smart, though little did either dream of his kinship 
to the other. Stephen ruled more by a sort of 
instinctive tact than by force. After all, he was 
shorter than Bill and Red and most of the Terschaks. 
He won only because he possessed more imagination 
than they did. 

Under Stephen’s direction the harness was fitted 
to the two solemn horses, and the chariot, brave in 
its paint and trappings, drawn up and attached. Bill 
consented to wear around his forehead a band of 
white cheesecloth, cut from a flour sack, if the 
others would too. 

Out of the back lane from Smart’s meadow pro¬ 
ceeded an amazing spectacle. The deep ruts of the 
road tossed the lurching vehicle from side to side, 
like a ship in mid-channel, and the Iowa Romans 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


59 


clung desperately to the none too stable dashboard. 
Behind a thicket of willows, near the schoolhouse, 
they concealed it until after the singing and poetry 
speaking. Then at a signal, Stephen and Bill and 
Red reappeared with the fillets of Rome around their 
temples, urging the two despondent plow horses into 
a gallop. 

The time and labor expended were out of all 
proportion to the audience. The dozen freckle¬ 
faced youngsters were curious and duly impressed, 
and the scattering of parents, coerced into coming, 
were startled. Bill’s oration, it must be confessed, 
was overshadowed by the elaborateness of the stage 
setting. Only Jacob Sears, to whom this had been 
no secret, was pleased. It meant more to him than 
a schoolboy’s prank. It meant that even to Bill 
White the “Glory that was Rome” could never fade 
entirely. 

At the end of the programme he made a speech 
and shook hands with the charioteers. Stephen’s cup 
of happiness was overflowing. He had no way of 
knowing what had transpired back in Smart’s hay 
barn and the snares that were laid for the harness 
thief. 

Si Smart was, by nature, an easy-going man, 


6o 


THE SHINING ROAD 


bluff and generous. But, like Cedric the Saxon, his 
temper was Gaelic. Smart had planned to drive his 
new team of bays into Green Mountain to the surrey, 
and this was the harness demanded on such occa¬ 
sions. Not only was the harness new, but he wanted 
it at that particular moment. He was genuinely 
angry. 

Whoever made off with that harness, by thunder, 
he’d lay hands on, by gad and he would! 

In the West a grudging sunset had faded into 
twilight when the chariot was concealed again in 
the cow shed and Red had departed with the plow- 
horses. The purloined harness over his arm, 
Stephen made a circuitous trip to the hay barn, the 
dog at his heels. At this time the men would be 
at supper. He was comparatively safe. 

The big door was drawn to for the night, and 
Stephen opened with cautious fingers the small one 
at the side. Inside the barn it was almost dark, and 
he heard no noise. Lured by the scent of a squirrel 
or rat, the dog disappeared to a distant corner. 

In a panic of nervousness Stephen slipped the 
harness over a peg on the wall and turned toward 
the door. Suddenly, on the stairs from the base¬ 
ment, where the horses were kept, sounded foot- 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


61 


steps, each moment closer. For a second the boy 
stood as though he were paralyzed. One moment 
more and he would be caught. He was desperate. 

In the gloom of the corner appeared a figure. It 
was Smart. With an oath the man started forward, 
then he stumbled and fell. An overturned wheel¬ 
barrow can impede the progress of even a Cedric. 

Like a weasel in a runway, the boy fled for the 
door and banged it roughly behind him. He must 
hide. To the west of the barn stood a thicket of 
currant bushes. Flat on his stomach, the boy crept 
under them, so agilely scarce a leaf flickered. It 
was the work of a second. 

Two minutes later the door was slammed to again, 
and the voice of Si Smart challenged the barnyard. 
“You good-for-nothin’, sneakin’, yellow rat,” he 
bellowed, “I’ll get you!” 

Then came a scratching at the closed door and 
the sound of whining, high-pitched and pleading. 
Under the currant bushes Stephen heard it. The 
dog was a prisoner. 

“By Gad,” Smart muttered, “must be his dog I 
got shut in there.” There was a moment of silence, 
when it seemed to Stephen the beating of his heart 
would suffocate him. Surely Smart too must hear 


62 


THE SHINING ROAD 


it! The man at the door chuckled gruffly. “Well, 
by gad, the dog stays!” And a heavy key turned 
in a protesting lock. 

Then Si Smart roused the hired men, and the 
chase was on. Time and again the men passed by 
him, but he lay like a clod, and the darkness was kind. 
It was lonely under the currant bushes, and the 
damp earth was cold. He wondered how much 
longer he must lie there. This was like being dead, 
he supposed. Well, he wished he were dead. It 
would be better than going on living. He was a thief 
and a coward. Smart would hate him and Zeke. 
Only Hephzibah would be sorry. 

Again from the barn sounded a long mourning 
wail, ending in a series of high-pitched, plaintive 
yaps. His dog—and he had deserted him. How 
hideous life was, how agonizing! 

Darkness had evidently put an end to the man 
hunt, and the searchers went back to the house. 
After an eternity of twenty minutes Stephen crept 
out from the bushes. He believed it must be mid¬ 
night, or maybe one o’clock, though the windows 
of Smart’s kitchen still glowed, yellow squares of 
light against the darkness. Like a shadow, the boy 
crept up to the door of the barn and listened. Inside 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


63 


he could hear the soft pad of the dog’s feet as he 
wandered about. 

‘‘Stranger,” he whispered, “Stranger, good-by. 
I’ll probably never see you any more.” 

A low whine answered him, but it ended in a yip 
of joy. His master would not desert him! Reckless 
of the cost, the boy flung himself against the door 
and with savage hands he wrung the knob this way 
and that. The door creaked, but it did not yield, 
not even the fraction of an inch. There was excite¬ 
ment and delight in the dog’s bark now. This must 
be a new sort of game. With his paws he sprang 
time and again against the wooden panels. 

It was no use. Once more Stephen pressed his 
lips against the keyhole. “I can’t help you none, 
old boy,” he whispered. “You gotta stay in there 
and starve, and it’s all my fault.” 

Then, because he had no other place to go, he 
started home. Over the fringe of willow hedge 
a new moon rose, delicate and distant, and from 
the sky behind it the sapphire blue of evening had 
not departed. It was one of those nights in spring 
of a strange, intangible beauty that wound with their 
very loveliness. Even the fields where, half drunk 
with fatigue, he had trudged in the wake of the 


6 4 


THE SHINING ROAD 


plow, plucking morning-glory weeds, seemed beauti¬ 
ful to him. This was his country, his land—and 
from now on he must be an exile, an outcast, a 
criminal. He wanted to go to the high school in 
Green Mountain next year with the other boys, 
even though Zeke thought education was foolish¬ 
ness. Well, he could never think of going now! 
With the scourge of remorse, cruel as only youth 
can be cruel, Stephen lashed himself. 

He was skirting the field that Zeke rented from 
Smart. Another turn and he would be home. But 
the next turn brought him a surprise. Across the 
cow yard, miry with the trampling of cattle, 
streamed a pale radiance. Curiously Stephen ap¬ 
proached and peered into the stable. The meager 
flicker of a kerosene lantern conjured up strange 
bulky shadows beneath the rafters. The air was 
warm with the smell of beasts and drowsy with the 
sound of breathing. Only one sound broke the 
quiet, the pitiful, choking moan of suffering. Old 
Grimple was dying. In the doorway Stephen 
waited. Suddenly he saw Zeke straighten up and 
steady himself against the side of the stall. His 
face was gray with fatigue and drawn with anxiety. 

Stephen slid back into the darkness, past the sheds. 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


65 


around to the kitchen. There was a light here too, 
and Hephzibah looked up sharply when he entered. 

“Stevie—” The quick relief on her face startled 
him. She still trusted him. “Stevie, I’m glad you 
come.” 

He walked over to her and awkwardly touched 
her sleeve. 

“Zeke don’t know nothin’ about it,” she hurried 
on, “but I think you and me ought to send word 
over to Smart and ask Dolfi to come.” 

Stephen looked away from the quick pleading in 
her face. It was a long moment before he answered: 
“I reckon so.” 

Again there was silence in the kitchen while the 
clock that had come all the way from Vermont 
whirred and rattled. “I reckon so,” he repeated. 
He wanted to put his head in her lap and tell her 
everything. He wanted to feel her arms around 
him—just as when he was a little boy—but a curi¬ 
ous, boyish chivalry restrained him. She had 
enough to bear already. With something that was 
meant to be a smile he met her eyes. “Guess I 
better be steppin’ along then,” he blustered, “if I 
ketch Dolfi ’fore he hits the hay.” 

The lines of anxiety smoothed out of Hephzi- 


s 


66 


THE SHINING ROAD 


bah’s face. “Don’t say Zeke did the askin’,” she 
cautioned. 

He shook his head. “S’long,” he mumbled. 

Again he tramped across the fields beneath the 
misty April starlight. He wasn’t thinking of any¬ 
thing now. Fate had caught him up and was 
hurling him toward disaster. Nothing could rescue 
him now, and a sort of peace descended. Besides, 
he must save Zeke’s cow. Grimple was a good beast 
and her calves were always red with humorous white 
noses. “Calico critters,” Hephzibah called them. 

As he passed Smart’s barn he listened a second 
for the bark of his dog. But no sound reached him, 
and he did not call. He had said good-by to 
Stranger. Without hesitating at the kitchen he 
walked around to the front door. Like a man in 
a trance he pressed his knuckles against the wooden 
panel of the door, but he did not strike it. His 
hand would no longer obey him. Then he tried to 
call, but the voice had gone from his throat. Was 
he to fail in this too? Must he forever wear the 
brand of coward as well as of thief? 

Suddenly the big door opened, and Smart, poker 
in hand, stood framed in the brightness. “Well, 
hello,” he said. “Thought I heard somebody come 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


67 


up on the porch.” He smiled, a little sheepishly, 
and held out the poker. “Sort of a thief around 
here to-day/’ he muttered. “Thought I wouldn’t 
take any chances. Got the fellow’s dog locked up 
in my barn now,” he chuckled. “Come in.” 

Dumbly Stephen followed him into the dining¬ 
room. It was a comfortable place with red ge¬ 
raniums on the sills and black walnut furniture. The 
sideboard, with its thousand scrolls and tiny wooden 
cupolas, represented the full flowering of a Grand 
Rapids cabinetmaker’s fancy. It seemed to the boy 
he had never beheld so magnificent a room. 

Smart sat down in the squeaking patent rocker 
that ran on a track and squinted up at Stephen. 
“You’re the boy that was placed out on Zeke Pres¬ 
ton’s farm, ain’t you?” 

Stephen nodded. 

Smart shifted the union plug comfortably to the 
other cheek. “Well, get enough to eat at Zeke’s?” 
he demanded. 

This wasn’t meant unkindly, but a flush of re¬ 
sentment stained the boy’s cheeks. “ ’Course I do,” 
he retorted. 

Again Smart’s eyes appraised him. The boy’s 
defiance had won his interest. “Well,” he repeated, 


68 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“you ain’t just paying me a friendly visit this even¬ 
ing, are you?” 

Stephen twisted the cap in his fingers. “No, 
sir; I ain’t.” For a long moment he stood silent. 
In the Brussels carpet was woven a design of green 
roses. For a long time afterward that color of 
green made him feel slightly ill. “No, sir, I come 
over to ask you if Dolfi could come over to see our 
cow. Grimple, she’s sick,” he raced on, his eyes 
glowing with excitement, “awful sick. Seems like 
maybe she’d die and Zeke don’t know what’s the 
matter.” There was no mistaking the earnestness 
of the boy’s appeal. “Zeke don’t know I come over,” 
he added, “only Aunt Hephzibah. Zeke’s got too 
much pride to ask favors—’specially from a man 
he’s owin’ to.” 

Smart’s eyebrows drew into a quizzical frown. 
“What do you mean—favors?” he said. “I’ve got 
nothing against Zeke. Besides, I remember Grimple. 
She’s out of old Betsy that I sold to Wagner two 
years ago come next August.” Smart could not 
see any animal suffer, especially a creature that had 
even remotely belonged to him. “Run around and 
raise up Dolfi,” he ordered. “I reckon he’s not 
dead asleep yet.” 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


69 


On the instant the boy turned to go. Then he 
stopped. This time the color had gone from his 
cheeks and the lines around his mouth were too deep 
for a boy’s. “Mr. Smart,” he began. “I ain’t told 
you all yet—all you oughta know afore you go 
sendin’ Dolfi to help us.” 

The change in the boy’s face did not escape him. 
“Well?” 

“Well—” He was as white now as the cloth on 
the black walnut table. “It’s my dog you got locked 
up in your barn. It was me that was in there this 
evenin’ when you hollered at him”—Stephen’s voice 
was thin with excitement and so low the man sensed 
rather than heard the words—“it was me stole your 
harness.” 

Smart had risen and the two stood facing each 
other. “What were you doing there this evening?” 
he demanded. “Stealing another?” 

The boy shook his head: “Puttin’ the first one 
back.” 

Smart’s eyes were burning with anger. “I don’t 
believe you,” he thundered. “Come out to the 
barn.” 

Under the shelf in the kitchen, where the milk 
pans drained, Smart picked up a lantern and lighted 



70 


THE SHINING ROAD 


it. Stephen saw how his fingers trembled as he 
held the match to the wick. Over the gravel drive¬ 
way the two walked, Smart’s heels grinding the 
pebbles into a noisy protest. At the door of the 
barn he paused for the key. The bark of the dog 
broke the silence. 

“You wait here, ,, the man ordered. 

Again came the bark of old Stranger, joyous and 
impatient. 

For a long moment Stephen waited. “Don’t I 
get even to see my dog?” he pleaded, “not even to 
tell him nothin’ ?” 

Smart was taking no chances. “You wait till I 
see to that harness. That dog, he’s a-” 

“A hostage.” 

Again the big farmer was startled. Before he 
had come West he had gone one year to the uni¬ 
versity, and it had been a long time since he had 
heard any reference to the days of the Caesars. 
“Where’d you learn that word?” He hadn’t meant 
to be diverted, but the boy aroused his curiosity. 

“Oh, in the history book. It’s Roman,” he ex¬ 
plained, “only in those days they used to give people 
as hostages, ’stead of just animals!” Again came 
a bark of supplication and something like a sob 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


71 


caught in the boy’s throat. “Only sometimes I 
think animals are nicer than people—’specially dogs.” 

Smart grunted and pushed open the door, only 
to bang it viciously behind him. In a brief moment 
he reappeared, the dog sniffing and yipping at his 
heels. “Go around and get Dolfi. I’ll hitch up.” 

“Kin Stranger go with me?” he questioned. 

The boy and the dog assumed that Smart’s grunt 
was affirmative. 

In ten minutes the spring wagon stood ready. 
“Get in here,” Smart ordered. 

Over the muddy wheel the boy clambered and on 
to the driver’s seat beside Smart. Dolfi, still dazed 
with sleep, lay stretched on the thin straw, covering 
the box, and the dog trotted along underneath the 
wagon. For a long time no one spoke and Stephen 
watched the reins flop up and down on the broad 
backs of the horses. What was Smart going to do? 
Would they put him in prison? His mind conjured 
up a thousand hideous possibilities. 

“Why’d you take that harness?” Smart asked 
finally. 

Stephen hesitated a moment. “Sounds kinda silly 
to tell,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Even Aunt 
Hephzibah thought so, and Zeke—well, I reckon 


72 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Zeke thought I was crazy. But then, Zeke ain’t got 
much Pagination.” 

Something like a chuckle came from Smart’s 
throat. But he only said “Go on,” and his voice 
was gruff. 

In a speech full of half-finished sentences, boyish, 
embarrassed, and very earnest, Stephen explained 
about the chariot and the exercises and Bill White’s 
oration. “Everybody brought somethin’ toward 
makin’ the chariot,” he finished, “and I promised a 
harness.” He hesitated a minute. “I guess I was 
overhopin’ a little when I counted on usin’ Zeke’s.” 

Again the man chuckled. “I never heard the word 
overhoping, but I reckon it’s a good one—in con¬ 
nection with getting anything out of Zeke.” 

But Stephen hadn’t meant to make sport of Zeke. 
“You ain’t understandin’ me right, Mr. Smart,” he 
protested. “Zeke and I—we’re different—” he 
stopped suddenly, groping for the right word. 
“We’re a diff’rent run of sheep. But Zeke ain’t 
a mean man at all. He ain’t had it easy, what with 
the spring rains makin’ a slew of his pasture and 
Grimple sick, and all the time thinkin’ about what 
he’s owin’ to you.” All his self-consciousness was 
gone now in the earnestness of his appeal. “Some- 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


73 


times I think he must dread you more than he’d 
dread the fires of hell-” 

This bit of New England theology delighted the 
squire. “Y’do, do you?” he queried. “Well, it 
ain’t my fault if Zeke’s only a quarter-section 
farmer, is it?” 

“No, sir; I suppose it ain’t.” 

Again there was silence except for the clump of 
the horses’ hoofs and the squeaking of the wagon. 
They had almost arrived before Smart spoke again. 
“Well, you ain’t explained yet why you took my 
harness.” 

The boy hung his head. “No,” he said, “but this 
sorta leads up. You see, I kinda hated to say we 
was poor and I couldn’t contribute nothin’ to the 
exercises— Then I just saw all your harnesses— 
’bout a thousand of ’em, hangin’ there. And, well— 
I reckon I just didn’t think, I acted.” He stopped 
suddenly, numb with misery and helplessness. “It 
seemed much more like borrowin’ than stealin’,” he 
amended. “In fact, it didn’t seem like stealin’ at 
all— then” 

They had reached the lane leading up to the farm¬ 
house and the huddle of sheds and the cow yard. 
How shabby it all seemed and meager in comparison 



74 


THE SHINING ROAD 


with Smart’s abundance! In the kitchen a light still 
burned and the boy knew that Hephzibah was wait¬ 
ing. When the horses stopped Dolfi woke with a 
yawn. 

“Go around to the stable with Dolfi,” Smart 
ordered. “I’ll just step into the kitchen—unless you 
need me—and have a little talk with Mrs. Preston.” 

Silently Stephen watched the kitchen door close 
behind the squire. Well, Hephzibah would have to 
know sometime, he supposed. 

It wasn’t until eleven o’clock that night that the 
Preston family got to bed, though Stephen had been 
sent up-stairs at once. On his cot in the gable 
room he lay, staring at the patch of moonlight on 
the unpainted floor. Well, no matter what happened 
to him now, old Stranger was safe and Grimple 
would get well and there would be more calico calves 
with white noses. Even though he were an outcast 
and a wanderer, it would be pleasant to remember 
he had helped to save Grimple. 

Suddenly there was a creak on the stairs, and 
Hephzibah entered. She had an old coat of Zeke’s 
around her, for it was cold up there. “Stevie?” 
she whispered. 

“Aunt Hephzibah-” 


THE EMPEROR HADRIAN 


75 


She came over and sat down beside him. “I don’t 
know as I ought to tell you this,” she began. “It’s 
a sort of a secret. But, some way, I think I’ve 
got to, because you’re in it.” 

It seemed to Stephen his heart would stop beating. 

“It’s about Smart,” she went on. “He says he 
ain’t in any hurry at all for that rent money, and 
if we need Dolfi just to ask for him. But, now, 
here comes the queer part.” She stopped again, 
puzzled about how to explain. “He says you ought 
to go to high school next year in Green Mountain, 
and then maybe to college and be a lawyer, like Judge 
Squires.” 

The boy’s eyes were black with amazement. 
“What’s he mean, Aunt Hephzibah?” 

With gentle hands she smoothed the covers down 
around him, just as she had done when he was 
a little boy. “He says you made out a case for 
Zeke that was better than a lawyer could of done. 
He says he usta think Zeke was slow pay and get 
mad at him, but now he says he understands more.” 

It was a long moment before Stephen could ask 
the question that burned in his heart. “Did—did 
he say anythin’ about me?” he said finally. 

“Yes,” she said, “that’s the best part. He said 


76 


THE SHINING ROAD 


you was a fine, upstanding boy and no coward, but 
you had too much imagination for farmin’.” 

“Oh-” 

Again there was silence in the bedroom. 

“And he said you could borrow his harness as 
often as you had a chariot race—and no questions 
asked.” She looked down at him and smiled. “He’s 
funny, ain’t he ?” 

For a long time the boy considered, then he 
spoke, very slowly: “I think he must be the under- 
standin’est person in the world—next to you.” 

She patted his hand in the darkness. “Good 
night, then—Mr. Lawyer.” 



CHAPTER III 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


CROSS the fields in farmhouse kitchens kero- 



** sene lamps were already being lighted. The 
meadows that two weeks before had been a riot of 
ocher and bronze looked black now in the early 
November twilight. The damp air held the acrid 
smell of dried leaves and distant wood smoke and 
where the ground sloped down thin streamers of 
mist hung close to the plowed earth. 

Stephen Douglas shivered and hunched the collar 
of his coat closer around his neck. A thousand 
times he had made the trip from Green Mountain 
back to Zeke Preston’s farm. It was a tame country, 
low lying and fertile, but to-night it oppressed him. 
At seventeen one is not analytical. He only knew 
that he was homesick and that this was his home. 

Without stopping for an armful of wood at the 
shed, he unlatched the door with his elbow and, 
his hands still in his pockets, shouldered it shut be- 


77 


78 


THE SHINING ROAD 


hind him. Hephzibah Preston looked up sharply 
and her eyes softened. 

“Thought you’d be late to-night,” she said. Bend¬ 
ing over the skillet, she ran her knife with noisy 
vigor through the hissing potatoes. “Gettin’ colder, 
ain’t it? Good thing we covered the asparagus.” 

“I spect.” He did not look up as he answered. 
His cap still on he sat at the table, already spread 
for supper, his elbows resting on the scarlet cover 
and his cheeks in his hands. The light of the lamp 
showed the delicate health of his skin and the way 
his hair curled softly in the nape of his neck and 
above his ears. 

With eager eyes she regarded him a little timidly. 
“Zeke’s still over to Smart’s place,” she ventured. 

The boy shifted, but he made no answer. 

“He drove old Ringer to the spring wagon,” she 
went on. “He oughta be back by now, though.” 
She pushed the skillet to the other end of the stove 
and walked slowly to the window, but her anxiety 
was not for Zeke Preston. If Stephen Douglas had 
been her own child, or if Hephzibah Preston had 
ever had any children, she might have known what 
to say to him now. She only knew something was 
wrong and that she loved him. 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


79 


Suddenly there came a sound of barking, joyous 
and impatient. “There’s Stranger,” she said. 

The boy got up and pushed open the door, but he 
did not pat the dog that came wriggling and yipping 
to greet him. 

Hephzibah came back to the table and sat down. 
“Take your lesson to-day?” she asked. 

The boy nodded. 

“Gettin’ on with your Latin?” 

His smooth lips drew into a grimace. 

“Judge Squires give you some new books?” 

He drew out of his pocket a copy of “Ivanhoe” 
and another of “Dombey and Son.” Hephzibah 
opened the first to an old engraving of the great 
hall of Cedric the Saxon. “There’s a dog looks 
like ours,” she said finally. 

The boy took the book and, despite his ill na¬ 
ture, a smile crossed his lips. “ ’Bout as much as 
I do,” he answered. “That’s a spaniel,” he went 
on, “and ours is a shepherd, as much as any¬ 
thing.” 

But the ice was broken. Stephen hung up his cap 
and coat and, with clumsy energy, slid a fresh stick of 
wood into the fire. Then there was silence while 
the clock from Bennington, Vt., ticked noisily on 


8o 


THE SHINING ROAD 


the wall. “I want to go to town to-night, Aunt 
Hephzibah,” he said finally. “D’you think Zeke 
would let me drive old Ringer ?” 

An expression of anxiety crossed her face. “I 
don’t know, Stevie,” she said. “He’s a little mad 
with you ’cause you ain’t fixed the gasoline pump 
yet. You got a knack for things like that and he 
ain’t. What’s the matter?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “A fellow wants a 
little fun once in a while,” he blustered. He seemed 
very young to her and wistful, in his bravado. 
“Nothin’ but work, work, work on this old farm, 
with Zeke naggin’ all the time.” He stopped sud¬ 
denly, a little ashamed of his outburst. “You’re all 
right, Aunt Hephzibah. It ain’t your fault,” he 
amended, “only I jest can’t stand it any longer. I’ve 
gotta break loose.” 

Hephzibah Preston prayed for guidance. “Ain’t 
you interested in what Judge Squires teaches you?” 
she ventured. “Why, he’s been to the university, 
and he knows more than any teacher that was ever 
to Green Mountain.” 

Stephen laughed derisively. “That’s nothin’ to 
write home about.” Then he slumped down again 
in the rocker. “Oh, I don’t know what’s the matter 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


81 


with me, Aunt Hephzibah. I’m jest tired of 
everythin’.” 

There came times when, despite her New Eng¬ 
land inheritance, Hephzibah Preston trusted her 
impulses. 

“I’ll see if I can get Zeke to loan you the mare 
this eveninV , she answered. The quick flush of 
pleasure on the boy’s face did not escape her. She 
was curious, and yet a sort of wise tact prevented 
her from pressing his confidence. “Somethin’ goin’ 
on in town?” she asked finally. 

“Yes.” He smiled at her suddenly, all his gloom 
dispelled. “At the Opery House.” 

“Oh!” Hephzibah Preston was after all from 
New England. “I—I thought maybe there was a 
Young Folk’s League meetin’ at the church.” 

“Lawsy, no.” His eyes were gleaming now and 
two spots of excitement glowed on his cheeks. “It’s 
a theater. It’s called ‘His Unwedded Wife.’ 
They’ve got pictures of it in Hiatt’s drug store. It’s 
exciting. Judge Squires says it’s a great theme, 
but too much of a steal on Balzac--” 

“Balzac ?” she interrupted. 

“Yes,” the boy swept on, “he writes. Judge 
Squires isn’t goin’, but he said I ought to. He said 
6 



82 


THE SHINING ROAD 


how could I tell a good play until I’d seen a few 
poor ones.” 

Hephzibah Preston took the doughnuts out of the 
jar and dusted them grudgingly in the sugarbowl. 
“You might get some more wood and look down 
the road if Zeke’s cornin’,” she said finally. 

Alone in the room her hands dropped to her sides. 
She was puzzled. How little she had guessed seven 
years ago what his coming would mean. In seven 
years Stephen had grown up—almost. He had 
finished the cross-roads school and the high school 
in Green Mountain. Now Judge Squires, in pay¬ 
ment for the doing of odd jobs at his house and 
office, lent him books and attempted, at least, to 
make him read his Latin. 

Judge Squires, too, belonged to that little group of 
Vermont farmers who brought to a mountainless, 
creekless prairie the old names of Roaring Brook and 
Green Mountain—but neither Judge Squires nor 
the Prestons fitted. Farewell Squires had come be¬ 
cause he had believed pioneering would be an ad¬ 
venture, because he had grown impatient of the 
dreary village, cupped deeply in the hills of Vermont, 
where one was never warm or free or gay enough. 
Farewell Squires should have gone to Paris or New 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 83 


York or even Bennington. In a city he might have 
found comradeship. His humor was too acid and 
his culture too worldly for the new country. In 
Green Mountain, Iowa, he was a lonelier man than 
he had ever been in Green Mountain, Vermont. 
The bright spot in his week was the hour he taught 
Stephen Douglas. A man who read French was 
perhaps a dangerous experiment in the way of a 
godly influence but Hephzibah Preston decided to 
take the risk. 

Until to-night Hephzibah Preston believed the ex¬ 
periment a success. Stephen had been contented. 
Evenings, as they did the dishes, he used to tell her 
stories from the books he read. He was a delight¬ 
fully vivid and credulous narrator, and Hephzibah 
listened, enthralled and awestruck at his erudition. 
Like every one who has never had a formal education 
Hephzibah overvalued it. It represented a world that 
was lost to her and for that very reason a paradise. 

With noisy awkwardness the boy tumbled the 
wood into the box and brushed off his sleeve. 
“Zeke’s cornin’. I heard old Ringer nicker. Sup¬ 
pose Zeke’s been tryin’ to beat old man Smart down 
again!” The boy chuckled, a bit maliciously. “Zeke 
could have had as much land around here as Smart 


8 4 


THE SHINING ROAD 


if he’d used his bean. Zeke’s a queer one. He’d lose 
a dollar to save a nickel.” 

“Stephen!” A thousand times she had had to 
defend her husband against the boy’s shrewd judg¬ 
ment. In her heart she knew that Stephen was often 
right. She knew too that Stephen was also wrong. 
“Zeke ain’t had it easy, either,” she ventured. 

“So he wants that nobody else should,” the boy 
combated. “Aunt Hephzibah, how about us 
havin’ some jam to-night, gooseberry maybe,” he 
wheedled, “and you’ll ask Zeke about my drivin’ the 
mare to town, won’t you?” 

She nodded but her heart was full of misgiv¬ 
ings. 

One look at the gloomy face of her husband con¬ 
firmed her fears. Smart had refused to sell the forty 
acres. For ten years now Zeke had been saving and 
saving. With a sort of ruthless injustice he had 
swept Hephzibah’s butter and egg money into the 
pool, and he justified his highhandedness by the 
belief that she must want the land as much as he 
did. Stephen was right. Zeke might have had that 
forty and a dozen other forties of the fertile, broad 
prairie, but he was no adventurer. The grim in¬ 
heritance of a long line of Vermont farmers had 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


85 


killed the waywardness and devil-may-care that ar© 
born in the heart of every boy. Zeke Preston had 
been offered the West—and he had taken a quarter 
section. 

Now the frontier was gone. Land that had been 
a man’s for the price of filing was worth a hundred, 
two hundred dollars an acre. The great pioneer 
estates were being divided. Land speculation falsely 
inflated prices. Men grew rich, like Si Smart and a 
dozen other farmers. Each year the land Zeke 
dreamed of owning eluded him. He could never 
catch up with the market. 

Zeke hitched a chair over to the table. He had 
dressed up to go to Smart’s, and his store clothes 
made him uncomfortable. From the pocket of his 
jacket he drew out an envelope. It was addressed 
to his wife and he eyed it suspiciously. Like as not 
some firm was trying to sell her a washing machine 
or a skin tonic. The mail order business had invaded 
the prairie. There were no backwoods. 

“What’s the matter with supper?” he grumbled. 
In the grudging light of the lamp he could not see 
that the envelope bore the post mark of Green 
Mountain, Vt., and that it came from the County 
Recorder’s office. Absently he slipped it between the 


86 


THE SHINING ROAD 


leaves of Judge Squires’s “Ivanhoe.” “Carvin’ a 
turkey?” he persisted. 

Hephzibah smiled, a bit wanly. “I was waitin’ so 
it would be hot for you.” She would make every 
effort to appease him. “Stephen was sort of in a 
hurry too,” she went on. “He was goin’ out this 
evenin’.” 

Zeke looked up sharply. “Goin’ out? ’Tain’t 
Saturday. He kin do a little work for me first— 
been goin’ to fix that pump for ten days. Now he 
wants to go gaddin’.” 

A flush of resentment deepened the soft color in 
the boy’s cheeks. Hephzibah’s eyes shot him a 
warning, but it came too late. 

“Goin’ to the theater ain’t gaddin’,” he contra¬ 
dicted. He became at once grown up and not a little 
pretentious, 

“The theater,” Zeke echoed, “you mean the Opery 
House ?” 

The boy nodded. “People like Judge Squires call 
it the theater.” The joy of this moment of sophistica¬ 
tion was delightful—but short-lived. 

Zeke’s eyebrows drew into a bristling line across 
his forehead. “What are they givin’ there?” he 
thundered. 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 87 


“A—a drama.” Titles are misleading, and Ste¬ 
phen was taking no chances. 

“By Shakespeare?” Zeke persisted. 

“No.” Stephen waited a minute. “I don’t think 
so.” 

“By who, then?” Zeke was warming to his sub¬ 
ject. “And what’s it called?” 

There was nothing to do now but lie or be damned. 
For a second he caught the eye of his tormentor, 
then he looked at the floor. “It’s ‘His Unwedded 
Wife’—and I’m goin’.” 

“ ‘His Unwedded—’ ” Zeke’s New England lips 
refused to repeat it. “Spendin’ your money on an 
immoral performance such as that!” He was fairly 
stuttering with exasperation and righteousness. “If 
you leave this house, I’ll—I’ll thrash you!” 

They were facing each other now. Hephzibah 
saw the boy’s hands tighten till the knuckles went 

white. From his lips came a hysterical laugh. 
“Thrash me—I’d like to see you. You touch me 
and I’ll go away from here. I’ll go to Denver, 
I’ll go to San Francisco, or maybe China.” He 
was fairly breathless now, and his eyes glistened 
like the eyes of an animal. “I’m sick of it here. 
Nothin’ but work and goin’ to school and never any 


88 


THE SHINING ROAD 


fun. I never get a cent from you, you bet. You're 
too tight to send to town for a regular man to fix 
that pump, and you can’t do it yourself. Do you 
suppose you'd pay me for doin’ it ?” His voice was 
thin with scorn. “And when Judge Squires gives 
me a quarter you say I can’t use it for a ticket.” 
He stopped suddenly, but no one interrupted him. 
“Well, I’m goin’, I tell you—” Snatching up his 
coat and cap from the peg on the wall, he flung 
himself toward the door. “Well, I’m off, you—old 
skinflint!” 

The first part of the way he ran, his breath 
coming in short gasps. Then his side began to 
hurt him and he slowed down. Overhead glowed 
a thin, misty starlight, but the moon had not risen, 
and the road was treacherous with the deep ruts 
of farm wagons. 

At first he was exhilarated with the drama of his 
departure. Zeke thought he was a baby, that he 
had no fight in him. Well, he’d show Zeke. Glow¬ 
ing with the importance of dearly bought inde- 
peiidence, he rehearsed all the indignities he had 
suffered at Zeke’s hands. Zeke deserved all that 
was coming to him. No doubt about that. 

But even as he argued he was oppressed by a 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 89 


vague suspicion that something was wrong with his 
logic. Hephzibah was unhappy, he knew. Hephzi- 
bah had been good to him. He was troubled, not 
because he felt he owed her anything, for Hephzi¬ 
bah belonged to those who are expected to serve 
without thanks; he was unhappy because he was 
fond of her. It was just as easy to talk to her as 
to think to himself and lots jollier. She would 
miss him, he thought, but he would send her beau¬ 
tiful cards and presents from Denver and China. 
He’d never send Zeke anything, you bet. 

He had reached the first huddle of houses and 
woodsheds now and the Lutheran Church on the cor¬ 
ner. He started running again, in a panic of fear 
lest he be late. It was darker in town than in the 
country except at the street corners where a splutter¬ 
ing arclight cast a dazzling but limited circle of 
brilliance on the rutted highway. The sidewalks were 
of wooden planks, laid lengthwise, and with a tend¬ 
ency to jerk upward where the wood had rotted loose 
from the nails. Main Street was full of people even 
though the night was cold. Perhaps the boy only 
imagined it, but the town held the charm of 
adventure. 

At the corner by Hiatt’s drug store he ran head- 


90 


THE SHINING ROAD 


long against Judge Squires. In the old days of 
local option in Iowa, Trim Hiatt conducted a frank 
and remunerative business in hair tonics. 

It was a second before Judge Squires regained his 
equilibrium, though, no matter how much hair tonic 
he had disposed of, did he ever lose his cynical 
detachment or his jeering humor. “So, I reckon 
did the blades of London scramble for the stalls at 
the boisterous performances of Lyly and Marlowe,” 
he countered. “Who knows but young Will himself 
called down the maledictions of just such an ill- 
tempered pedant as you have. Zooks, boy, look 
where you’re going!” 

Stephen glanced up, a little embarrassed. “I was 
afraid I’d be late. I’m going to the Opery House,” 
he stammered, “and I couldn’t stand to miss any of 
it.” 


The thin lips of Farewell Squires drew into a 
smile. “Gaudio vobiscum —if you studied your 
Latin, you’d understand that. It will be very bad, 
and you’ll enjoy it very much. Good-night, boy.” 

At the Opera House door Stephen met Carrot 
Wilson. “You kin sit anywheres, besides there ain’t 
many folks here to-night,” Carrot explained. 

Just the same Stephen Douglas could scarcely 



HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


9i 


force himself to mount sedately the steep steps lead¬ 
ing up to the auditorium. How could folks loiter 
that way and gossip? The Opera House occupied 
the second floor over the Farmers’ County Bank, 
and it seemed to Stephen Douglas no staircase could 
be so long. At the top the boys dodged around the 
group of people and scurried down the one aisle 
toward the footlights. 

It was cold in the room and the air was filled with 
the odor of dusty plush and rain dampened plaster. 
Stephen took off his cap and unbuttoned his jacket. 
He was warm with excitement. Twice the curtain, 
representing a gloomy eruption of Vesuvius, swayed 
outward as though it might ascend and then settled 
into place again with a sort of shiver. Stephen felt 
a choke of joy in his throat. Exactly twenty minutes 
after the hour mentioned on the posters the curtain 
twitched upward. 

The Opera House at Green Mountain was 
equipped with two sets, an outdoor and an indoor 
one. Sam Martin, who ran it, as well as the Hay and 
Feed Store, had purchased them second-hand from a 
road show that had gone on the rocks in Jewel Junc¬ 
tion. The interior represented a Chicago sign- 
painter’s conception of a Louis XV boudoir. It 


92 


THE SHINING ROAD 


contained a great deal in the way of splendid gold 
flourishes and obese, smirking cupids. The furni¬ 
ture for the interior was furnished by Sam Martin 
from such articles as were excluded from the house¬ 
hold of Mrs. Martin. They were neither sub¬ 
stantial nor beautiful but, as Sam expressed it, “they 
sort of take the bareness off the stage.” 

Perhaps in the whole audience Carrot Wilson and 
Stephen Douglas alone did not notice the seats were 
uncomfortable, that the heroine lisped, and that the 
hero chewed tobacco. It was a new world to Stephen, 
a thousand times more real than the realities of 
Green Mountain. He was swept along, just as 
he had been by “Kidnapped” and “Bleak House” 
and “Kenilworth.” Perhaps the words of the great 
Booth could not have stirred him more than the 
mouthings of this Kansas thespian. 

The last act was an exterior, and the program, if 
there had been one, would have read “Terrace of 
Sir Richard Wadleigh’s Castle.” In this act the 
Unwedded Wife is rewarded by a magnanimous pro¬ 
posal of marriage in something that sounded like bad 
hexameter. It seemed to Stephen that he had never 
beheld anything so beautiful as the heroine. She 
stood, leaning against a fragile tree trunk, dressed in 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


93 


a simple blue mother hubbard of soiled cheesecloth 
with a yellow cord around her waist. Her flaxen 
wig, plaited in two monstrous braids, hung down 
rank to her knees. This was no tawdry road show 
with a fly-by-night manager. This was enchant¬ 
ment and beauty and adventure. The scene in Zeke 
Preston’s kitchen was forgotten. Stephen was trans¬ 
ported far from Green Mountain to that magic City 
of Romance. 

Down the dingy staircase he followed the yawn¬ 
ing line of audience. Outside it was raining. 

“Got a horse here, Steve ?” Carrot demanded. 

The boy came back with a start. “Nope, I ain’t.” 

“Better stay over to our house,” Carrot suggested. 

Stephen assented. 

His dreams that night were a confusion of pale 
blue heroines with yellow braids and ships that were 
bound for China. He did not see the woman who 
sat for a long time in the light of a kerosene drip 
lamp and fingered with work-stiffened fingers the 
leaves of a copy of “Ivanhoe.” He did not know 
that in Hephzibah’s kitchen the whole course of his 
life was being decided. 

Zeke had waited up too. After supper he read the 
“Green Mountain Sentinel”—even to the patent in- 


94 


THE SHINING ROAD 


sides and the advertisements. Then he pulled on his 
boots and went out to the barn. He dallied a long 
time with odd jobs that would have to be undone the 
next morning. It was only a quarter past nine when 
he returned to the kitchen. He wound the clock, 
though it was only Tuesday, and poked the fire. 
Then his resources were exhausted. Well, Stephen 
would have to go unthrashed until Wednesday. 

“Ain't you ever cornin’ to bed?” he demanded, 
but he did not catch his wife’s eye. 

“After a mite,” she said. “I’ll jest set here and 
read a while.” 

“It’s bad on your eyes,” Zeke offered. “Besides 
—kerosene ain’t bein’ give away these days.” 

Hephzibah Preston made no answer. She heard 
him moving around in the next room, the sound of 
his heavy boots falling upon the bare floor, the 
creak of the bed springs. In ten minutes he would 
be asleep. She was alone. 

Somewhere out in the blackness was Stephen. 
She had been anxious about him before, the time 
he broke his arm, the winter he had pneumonia, a 
hundred other times. But to-night there was a new 
ache in her heart, a curious thing she could not 
analyze. Stephen was growing up. He was restless. 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


95 


His curious twists of mind amazed and delighted 
her. She adored him and she feared for him. 
Stephen was a changeling, an artist’s child left in a 
peat-digger’s hovel. In a half way she knew she 
could not help him. She could nurse him and love 
him but she could not teach him or bring him 
diversion or beauty. 

With heedless hands she turned the pages of the 
volume. Some day he would outgrow Judge Squires 
and Green Mountain. Some day he might go 
away to Des Moines—or maybe China. But he was 
such a baby yet. If she could only keep him a little 
longer. Suddenly her eyes smarted. Maybe Zeke 
was right about the kerosene lamp being bad for 
them. 

From her hands the yellow leaved “Ivanhoe” fell 
to the floor with a thud, and as she bent over she saw 
the envelope Zeke had slipped into the pages. It was 
addressed to her, and it came from the County 
Recorder’s office in Green Mountain, Vt. With 
clumsy fingers she opened it and drew out the letter. 
The phrasing was formal and she puzzled a long time 
over the legal expressions. What it seemed to be 
saying was that Abijah Matthews had died and left 
her ten shares of bank stock at a hundred dollars a 


96 


THE SHINING ROAD 


share. Uncle Bije! She hadn’t seen him for thirty 
years. And now he was dead and he had left her ten 
shares of bank stock. 

There was a creak on the floor, and the door from 
the bedroom was pushed open. Framed in the 
blackness stood Zeke, his face full of challenging 
resentment. “Well, are you goin’ to set up all 
night?” he demanded. 

“Zeke”—she held the paper out to him—“Zeke, 
look, Uncle Bije Matthews is dead.” 

“ ’Bout time,” he grumbled. “He ain’t much 
under a hundred.” 

“Zeke, you don’t understand,” she persisted. 
“He’s left me some shares—bank stock.” Her 
breath came in little gasps now. “Ten of them and 
they’re worth a hundred dollars a share. That’s, Zeke 
—that’s a thousand dollars.” 

For a long moment they stared at each other, then 
Zeke seized the paper. She was right. It was all 
there in typewriting with the recorder’s name at the 
bottom. A thousand dollars! “Gol, Hephzibah,” 
he said at last and in his eyes burned the light of con¬ 
quest, “we can buy that land now, without givin’ 
Smart no first mortgage either. Gol, it can’t be true, 
but it is.” 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


97 


It was a long moment before Hephzibah answered. 
“Funny, but I wasn’t thinkin’ about the land just 
then. ,, 

Next morning Stephen helped Carrot Wilson do 
his chores. With a curious detachment he filled 
Mrs. Wilson’s wood box, milked the cow, and 
cleaned out the stall. Then Carrot suggested they 
go down to the drug store. 

Every town has its club room. Green Mountain’s 
was Hiatt’s drug store, a dreary place housed behind 
a fa9ade of sheet iron representing bricks and painted 
a slate gray. The interior was decorated with given- 
free calendars and posters, in primary colors, ad¬ 
vertising tonics. The dust covered shelves were 
cluttered with a display of patent medicines, 
arranged with less system than the jars of pre¬ 
serves in Mrs. Hiatt’s cellar. An iron burner-stove, 
surrounded by a boarded-up parking of saw-dust, 
furnished all the warmth and cheer. Along the 
side stretched a bleak length of soda counter, deserted 
now except for the lurid announcements of soft 
drinks still tucked into the mirror frame. 

Carrot Wilson bought some licorice drops and 
joined the group around the stove. In an instant 
Stephen was all attention. Leaning against the 


98 


THE SHINING ROAD 


counter, with a grace that was unmistakable, despite 
the shabby sag of his ready-mades, stood the Kansas 
thespian, hero of “His Unwedded Wife.” He was 
talking to Lafe Collins, and as he talked he spat into 
the sawdust parking with an accuracy which at¬ 
tracted the sullen admiration of every man there. 
He did not even change his position of indolence to 
achieve this feat—and he never missed. 

“Fellah that does the shiftin’ and looks out for 
the trunks, plays the girl’s father evenings, cleared 
out this morning,” the hero was explaining. It 
appeared that Archibald Duvetain, ne Si Peters, 
was actor manager. “Gotta get a new boy now, I 
reckon, and we’re going to Eagle Grove tonight.” 

“Gotta get a new boy,” Lafe Collins repeated 
sociably. 

Stephen Douglas edged nearer. After a while 
Lafe Collins bought some Union Plug, squinted at 
the barometer which always registered “cloudy with 
rising temperature,” and slouched out the door. 

Stephen cleared his throat. “I heard you were 
looking for somebody to play a part in your drama,” 
he ventured. The hands that were clutched in the 
pockets of his jacket grew white under their chapped 
roughness. 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


99 


The actor manager shifted and turned an apprais¬ 
ing gaze on the gray-eyed boy beside him. “Lookin’ 
more for a fellah that can hoist trunks/’ he said 
at last. 

The color swept into Stephen’s cheeks. “I can 
hoist trunks. I’m strong as a ox,” he blustered. 

This time the man became interested. “You kin ?” 
and then after a moment: “what about your folks?” 

Stephen hesitated. “I ain’t got any folks.” His 
voice was so low he believed none of the group 
around the stove could overhear him. 

The actor manager’s gaze was shrewd. “No 
folks?” he said. “Well, you look pretty well darned 
for a roustabout.” 

Stephen was on the defensive. “I ain’t a roust¬ 
about,” he asserted, “but I’m sick of it here. I 
wanta see the world. I-” 

“You want to see the world,” the man repeated 
and he laughed, a little bitterly. “Come along then. 
You’ll see it and a damned fine place it is too.” He 
spat again, but this time the gesture seemed to carry 
with it all the scorn of a man who had called the 
world his oyster—and found that it contained no 
pearl. “Three dollars a week and expenses. Be 
around to the Opery House at eight. We’re leavin’ 


100 


THE SHINING ROAD 


on the Flier at midnight. That train ain’t been on 
time since the Civil War.” He spat again, then 
stood up and squared his shoulders. Si Peters of 
Prairieville, Kansas, was not without a manner, 
despite his spotty suit and the hard lines etched deep 
around his thin-lipped mouth. 

Eight o’clock that evening. 

Stephen was curiously elated. Three dollars a 
week and see the world—Eagle Grove and Des 
Moines and China. Once a man spoke before the 
Young Folk’s League who had been in China. He 
had had a nasal voice and he didn’t look unlike other 
people—but with Stephen it would be different. All 
morning he walked around the streets as though he 
no longer belonged there. Once he saw Judge 
Squires coming out of the drug store but the boy 
avoided him. Some way the laughing, quizzical look 
in Judge Squires’ eyes would be difficult to face. 
Judge Squires too had found no pearl in the oyster. 

At noon he went home with Carrot. They had 
corn beef and cabbage and mince pie—not as good 
as the pies of Hephzibah Preston. Hephzibah! Well, 
lie would write to her. She would be proud of him. 
He was going to be a success. 

After dinner he became restless. What was he 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


IOI 


going to do all afternoon and until eight? Should 
he go out to the farm and see Hephzibah? Zeke 
would be busy with the husking. He could avoid 
Zeke somehow. With a brief “so long” to Carrot 
the boy started off. How strange it all was and 
how familiar, the mill pool in which flourished 
delightful crawdads and minnows, the sagging bridge 
across the slough, the willow grove where the wood¬ 
chuck family lived, the field in which he had found 
his dog, old Stranger. Another turn and he could 
see the house. 

But the next turn brought him a surprise. Tied 
to the pump-handle by the side porch stood old 
Ringer, hitched to the buggy. Zeke must be going 
to town. Stephen made a detour and approached 
the back door from the woodshed side. With 
cautious fingers he pushed the door of the lean-to, 
opening into the kitchen. A delicious aroma met his 
nostrils, Hephzibah had been baking ginger cookies. 
Through a crack in the door Stephen could see the 
kitchen. Hephzibah sat there in the old Sheridan 
rocker that had been her mother’s. Her hands were 
loose in her lap and her eyes stared into vacancy. 
In the bedroom he could hear Zeke moving around 
getting ready. Stranger got up from his rag rug 


102 


THE SHINING ROAD 


by the stove, stretched, and laid his head in Heph- 
zibah’s lap. She gave a little start of surprise; 
then she put both hands on the dog’s head and bent 
her face toward him. 

Something almost like a sob caught in the boy’s 
throat. “Gosh,” he muttered, “gosh.” 

Suddenly the door from the bedroom opened and 
Zeke came in. He had on his Sunday suit again 
and his heavy boots were polished. “Well, I guess 
I’m off now,” he mumbled. “Where’s your let¬ 
ter?” 

With dull eyes she looked at him, but her lips did 
not move. 

“Well, I’m waitin’.” His face softened into a 
smile. “I reckon Smart ain’t expectin’ me to call on 
him every day.” 

The dog curled down upon Hephzibah’s feet and 
her hands fell again upon her apron. “Zeke,” she 
said finally, “I ain’t sure I want to spend my shares 
thataway.” 

The surprise on his face was patent. “What 
away? Don’t you want that land, same as I do?” 

For a brief instant her eyes met his. “No, I 
reckon I don’t—now. There’s somethin’ else I was 
plannin’ to do. It ain’t practical, maybe—but it 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


103 


seems like I just had to do it.” Her words came 
slowly now and grimly. “I'm goin’ to use those 
shares to send the boy to college.” 

“Stephen!” The man's face was black with emo¬ 
tion. “Stephen, that-” 

“Wait a minute!” She was pleading as a woman 
pleads only once in a lifetime. “Don't say nothin' 
yet.” She stopped, searching for the right words. 
“Stephen, he’s our boy, same as if I’d bore him. I 
—I guess it's only natural I want him to have 
things. You and I ain’t had it easy.” She was 
standing now and in her gaunt figure was a sort of 
dignity. “I don’t want him to have to work like 
we’ve done and have nothin’. I ain't complainin',” 
her voice was almost tender, “I couldn’t do nothin’ 
else but work. He's different.” Again she puzzled 
for the words. “He’s like a race horse that ain’t 
asked to plow or haul farm wagons. Don’t you see 
Zeke, how it is now? Don’t you see?” 

Under the man’s bronzed cheeks two spots of color 
burned. “No, I don’t see. He ain’t our boy, and 
we’ve fed him and kept him. What do we get for 
it? Sass and impudence.” Zeke’s anger was mount¬ 
ing. “Twenty times I’ve asked him to mend that 
pump-” 



104 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Hephzibah made a deprecating gesture with her 
hands. “He’s only seventeen.” 

“All right then,” Zeke’s eyes were glowing and his 
work stiffened shoulders trembled with emotion. 
“You choose. It’s him or me.” He made a motion 
toward the door. 

“Zeke,” she caught at his coat with both hands, 
“Zeke, you gotta hear me through.” In her eyes 
burned the passion of a great belief. “Zeke, d’you 
know why I let you take my butter and egg money ? 
To buy that land—but I wanted that land so we 
could make somethin’ more for him. So we could 
do the things for him nobody ever done for us. 
Zeke, we should have had a boy of our own, but 
we didn’t. Then we took him and when he came 
some way livin’ become more—important. I started 
lovin’ him gradual like. He ain’t perfect now— 
not near. But he’s mine, mine, my boy.” Her 
hands dropped from his shoulders and they faced 
each other. “Those shares belong to me, don’t 
they?” 

Zeke Preston nodded. “They’re yours.” Tyranni¬ 
cal as he was, Zeke Preston possessed a curious 
streak of justice. “Bije Matthews was your uncle. 
They’re your shares.” 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 105 

“Well/’ her voice came very slowly, “I ain’t goin’ 
to give ’em to you!” 

Zeke made an aimless movement toward the door. 
Then he wavered, like a man shorn of all purpose, 
and dropped down on a chair by the table, his great 
hands hanging listless between his knees. After a 
long moment he bent over and unlaced the Sunday 
boots polished resplendent against his visit to Si 
Smart’s. There was silence in the kitchen, but be¬ 
hind that silence throbbed a drama more real than 
the ranting of actors. 

Out of the lean-to crept Stephen Douglas. It was 
twilight now and much colder. Over the black roof 
of the hay barn hung a new moon, low and brilliant. 

“Gosh,” he repeated softly, “gosh.” 

If there is a providence that hears and interprets, 
a prayer for guidance as eloquent as David’s burned 
in those words. How difficult life was. How 
complicated! 

Almost without thinking he took the road back 
to the village. He had said he was going to Eagle 
Grove that evening on the midnight flier. He had 
given his word. Zeke would be srlad to have him 
go, he thought. If he went, Zeke could have his 
land. As he tramped along the road edge his heart 


io6 


THE SHINING ROAD 


was a torment of emotions. It was difficult for him 
to think of Hephzibah, it made him feel not so 
romantic or adventurous. It made him feel a little 
guilty. To think of Zeke, though, was to fan into 
flame the embers of his rebellion. 

At the corner by the Lutheran Church, where he 
crossed the street, he dodged sharply to avoid being 
run into by a horse, driven much too fast along the 
rutted road. Judge Squires' mare, he was sure, as 
he stared behind him into the darkness. What could 
the judge be doing out of town this time of night? 

With no thought of food the boy hurried on to 
the Opera House, deserted now, for, owing to the 
limited sale of tickets, the performance that evening 
had been cancelled. “His Unwedded Wife” was not 
playing to capacity houses in Green Mountain. 

The door to the auditorium was unlocked and 
Stephen mounted the unlighted stairway. Some¬ 
where on the stage dimly glowed an economical radi¬ 
ance. This evening the room was frankly unheated 
and Mount Vesuvius had been rolled up above a 
forlorn and disheveled stage. With his back to the 
boy Si Peters, actor manager, nailed down the top 
board of a crate. At the sound of footsteps the man 
stretched around curiously. 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 107 


“You there?” he asked, and a flicker of amuse¬ 
ment twisted his lips. He sat down leisurely on the 
box and squinted his eyes at the boy. “Still want 
to see the world, eh?” 

Stephen flushed. He had an idea he was bemg 
made fun of. “Well, what’s it to you if I do?” he 
challenged. 

Si Peters shrugged his shoulders. After a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation he drew a squat bottle from his 
pocket and extended it to Stephen. “Well, here’s 
to fortune.” 

Stephen shook his head. 

“No?” The man drained off a copious swallow. 
“You don’t mind if I drink to fortune then?” Once 
more he lifted the bottle to his lips, then corked and 
replaced it in his pocket. “It’s a great friend,” he 
patted the bulging jacket, “a great friend. Reconciles 
you to this—” his arm swept the empty auditorium, 
“to lousy hotels, to midnight fliers and to—Green 
Mountain.” 

Stephen looked at him uneasily. 

“Yep, it’s a great reconciler.” Then the man’s 
eyes came back again quizzically. “Your old 
friend Judge Squires is no enemy to barley¬ 


corn. 


io8 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“Judge Squires?” The boy’s surprise was patent. 
“D’you know him?” 

The actor manager nodded. “He was callin’ on 
me this afternoon. Queer duck.” He slid off the 
box and stretched. “Cold, ain’t it? Well, let’s get 
on with the packing. You might fold up those 
things over there,” he pointed, “and put ’em in the 
trunk.” 

Stephen did as he was ordered, carried the bag¬ 
gage downstairs, where the Potter House bus was 
to stop by for it, and followed Si Peters over to the 
hotel. 

“Better sit here,” Peters advised, “while I go and 
wake up the missus. She’ll have a fierce mad on, the 
old girl.” 

Stephen avoided the eyes of the hotel clerk, 
lounged over to the stove and sat down. The air 
in the office was suffocatingly hot. Perhaps because 
he was weary after his two long walks, or perhaps 
because nine thirty is midnight to a country lad he 
sank into a cramped slumber. It was almost twelve 
when Peters shook his shoulder. “Come along,” he 
ordered. 

Stephen stumbled to his feet, embarrassed and a 
little dizzy. The whole troupe stood there, haggard 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


109 


eyed and disheveled. A thin girl in a shabby coat 
and a hat with a dreary feather winked at him. 
There was something vulgar but not a little brave in 
that greeting. He stared at her blankly a minute, 
then he knew. She was Geraldine Beatrice, the 
unwedded wife. 

In a sort of daze he followed them into the Potter 
House bus, an ancient vehicle containing two long 
seats upholstered with carpet and with a scene from 
the Swiss Alps painted on the back door. The three 
blocks to the station were traversed in silence except 
for grunts of annoyance when the jolting of the 
coach threw them against one another. Geraldine 
Beatrice sat in one corner, huddled forward, next to 
Peters. Stephen saw the actor manager pass her the 
bottle that reconciles one to midnight fliers and he 
noted the quick, nervous gesture with which she 
pressed it to her lips. When Peters took it away 
from her again there was a struggle and a candid 
interchange of personalities. Stephen was oppressed 
by a curious revulsion of feeling. He wondered 
whether he was already seeing the world. 

At the station Stephen helped unload the trunks 
from the top of the bus and piled them on the plat¬ 
form. Except for Peters the rest of the troupe 


no 


THE SHINING ROAD 


crowded into the smoke filled station. Their task 
finished the man slouched over to Stephen. 

“Quite a bunch down to see you off, eh?” Peters 
jeered. 

Stephen squared his shoulders. “Nobody knew I 
was goin’,” he defended. 

Peters chuckled. “Oh yes, they did. Judge 
Squires knew, and he didn’t exactly approve.” 

“Judge Squires?” Stephen was thinking rapidly 
now. 

Far off in the night sounded the distant warning 
of the engine. The train was coming. In ten 
minutes, five minutes, he would be on his way toward 
Eagle Grove and the great adventure. But his heart 
was like lead. Peters hustled into the station to col¬ 
lect his company and Stephen was left alone, the 
pounding of the train sounding nearer and nearer. 
Down the rails shot at last two long streamers of 
light and the smoke from the engine was a sulphurous 
blaze of color. 

“Gosh,” the boy muttered, “gosh.” 

Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder and he 
wheeled around sharply. It was Hephzibah. The 
wind whipped her skirt around her and whisps of 
gray hair had blown loose from under the tight black 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


hi 


bonnet. “Stephen/’ she said. Her voice was sharp 
with anxiety. “Stephen, you ain’t goin’ ?” 

The boy’s eyes wavered before her look. She did 
not dare to let him answer her then. “Stephen, I— 
I gotta horse here. I thought you might just happen 
to want to drive back with me.” 

The train had come to a stop now and Peters 
joined them. His manner was officious and his voice 
husky. “Hey, get busy there, you,” he shouted. 
“Think you’re a decoration?” 

With an effort Stephen confronted him. “Mr. 
Peters,” he began. This was the most difficult thing 
the boy had ever faced. “Pm sorry. I’m not goin’.” 

“Not goin’—you yellow skunk,” Peters yelled. 
“When I got a ticket for you! I’ll show you whether 
you’re goin’, you—” He made a lunge toward the 
boy, then he noticed Hephzibah. “Mama’s come to 
get her baby,” he jeered. “So you let that old girl 
boss you around yet, do you?” 

With the strength of which only a sensitive boy 
is capable Stephen swung toward the man and struck 
him. He was exalted with fury. “Take that and 
that,” he shouted, his breath coming in gasps, “and 
that.” 

Shielding his head with his arms, the man stag- 


THE SHINING ROAD 


112 

gered back against the luggage. “Clear out of here,” 
he yelled, “you hell cat.” 

At the sound of the brawl a group from the sta¬ 
tion and the baggage car began to gather. 

Once more the boy was upon him. “Had enough 
now,” he panted, “had enough?” 

Si Peters had had enough. Besides, he must play 
next day in Eagle Grove, and there were trunks to 
be lifted aboard and crates to check. “Had enough,” 
he muttered, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. “Had 
enough of you too,” he amended, savagely. “Hey, 
Jack,” the actor manager summoned the brake- 
man, “give us a hand here!” 

With a curious detachment Stephen watched the 
group around him. In three minutes, two minutes, 
they would vanish and he would be left there— 
alone. 

“Stephen-” 

He turned around sharply. 

In the light of the station lantern she searched his 
face. “We better be gettin’ on now, hadn’t we?” 

Dumbly the boy followed and clambered into the 
buggy beside her. Through the sleeping town they 
jogged. Far in the distance they heard still the 
puffing of the train on the up-grade and the warning 



HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 


ii3 

whistle at the crossing. Until they were on the road 
home neither spoke. 

“Stephen,” she began, “you ain’t sorry I come, are 
you?” 

The excitement of the combat had burned out 
now. He was just a child, hungry and wistful and 
very tired. “I don’t know, Aunt Hephzibah. I 
don’t like them—and I do like you. But I’m tired 
of farming.” 

A little timidly she reached under the lap robe 
and touched his hand. “I know, Stevie,” she said, 
“but it won’t be for always.” 

For another mile they jogged on in silence, the 
boy’s eyes fastened on the turned back ears of old 
Ringer. “Was Judge Squires out to our place this 
evenin’?” he asked at last. 

“Yes.” 

He waited a moment before he spoke again. “Then 
he told you I was leavin’ ?” 

She nodded. “He talked a lot else too.” Dumbly 
Hephzibah prayed she would not blunder. “He said 
he hoped you’d study your Latin a little harder and 
stay happy this year and that next year you ought to 
be ready for college.” 

“College!” Stephen echoed the word. The scene 
8 


THE SHINING ROAD 


114 

in the kitchen flashed back before him. He felt very 
humble, suddenly, and impotent. “Gee, Aunt 
Hephzibah, I ain’t worth it. You—you hadn’t ought 
to be so good to me.” 

In the laugh with which she answered him was a 
note of gaiety. “You can’t argue yourself down to 
me,” she said. 

They had turned the last corner now and the 
lights from the kitchen window streamed out into 
the darkness. It was very cosy there and safe. His 
dog Stranger would be waiting for him, and there 
were fresh ginger cookies. As old Ringer hustled 
them into the lane Stephen spoke again. 

“What about Zeke?” he asked. “I reckon he’s got 
a regular reason to be mad at me now.” This time it 
was he who watched her face in the frosty starlight. 

“It was Zeke hitched up the mare for me to go 
fetch you when Judge Squires told us you was goin’.” 
She waited a minute before she went on. “He’s a 
hard man, Stephen, but he’s just.” 

Together they unhitched the horse, and Stephen 
put her in the stall. On the path back to the kitchen 
he ran to catch up with her. Just as when he was a 
little boy, afraid of the night, he slipped his hand 
into hers. 


HER THOUSAND DOLLARS 115 


At the kitchen steps he bent down and pulled loose 
a rotting board. “Gosh, that thing’s been needing 
mending for a month now, and the gable roof and— 
the gas pump.” He smiled down at her in the dark¬ 
ness. “I reckon I gotta full day ahead—to-morrow.” 

Hephzibah Preston made no answer. Even those 
with the gift of speech cannot translate into words 
great happiness. 


CHAPTER IV 

SCHNITZLER VerSUS BLACKSTONE 

O TEPHEN DOUGLAS was waiting on the porch 
^ of the fraternity house for William Carrington 
Kliets. Billy Kliets was already a half hour late, 
but, for the first time during the three years Stephen 
had tutored him in certain courses leading—ar¬ 
duously—to a degree, he didn’t mind waiting. A 
half dozen boys rushed out of the front door en 
route, in the incredibly serious, single-track manner 
of youth, for the baseball field, for an ice-cream 
soda, for a date. Stephen barely noticed them. 

Finally some one stopped beside him. “Goin’ to 
pull our William through the finals this trip?” 
queried next year’s football captain. 

Stephen Douglas shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt 
if William ever grows up to be Dean of the Latin 
department—though, God knows, he’s been in it long 
enough to be pensioned.” 

Next year’s football captain grinned. “Well, the 
116 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 117 


rich don’t draw everything, do they? For instance, 
I’ve got beauty and you’ve got brains. And we 
haven’t got ten dollars between us.” He lit a very 
dirty pipe which he felt made him look mature. 
“S’long.” 

“S’long.” And Stephen had the steps to himself. 

With a gesture that was supposed to be casual he 
drew an envelope out of the pocket of his shabby 
jacket and turned it over slowly in his fingers. It 
was addressed to Judge Wilmot Truman and the 
neatly engraved return address in the left hand 
corner read Robert Hare Prentice, Dean of the De¬ 
partment of Law. Bob Prentice and Wilmot Tru¬ 
man had been class mates at Harvard more years 
ago than they cared to remember. Now they saw 
each other seldom. They disagreed on most subjects 
but it was difficult for Robert Prentice not to give 
a letter of introduction to the Judge to the young 
man in law school in whose future he believed. 

“He won’t take you,” Dean Prentice had said to 
Stephen. “He’s never taken anybody yet I’ve sent 
him. But it will be worth the trip for you to meet 
the biggest lawyer in this state.” 

Stephen looked out across the street, elm lined and 
peaceful. Like most young men his moods were 


Ii8 


THE SHINING ROAD 


tempered by the aesthetic value of his surroundings. 
It was spring to-day and he was filled with restless 
eagerness. The world was so delightfully just around 
the corner. To-day he could forgive a Spartan fate 
all the rigors of an ungentle past. For a moment 
anything became possible. He might be Chief Jus¬ 
tice some day. He might be President. He might 
get a job in Judge Truman's office. 

Then a carriage drove by and the lady in it smiled 
and bowed to Stephen. It was Mrs. Prentice, the 
wife of the dean of the law department. For four 
years now he had tended the Prentice’s furnace. It 
had been a mean devil, that furnace, and Stephen 
had labored with it late at night and long before the 
first gray of the winter mornings. Stephen had 
mowed the Prentice lawn, he had waited on table 
in a students’ dining hall, he had clerked evenings in 
a stationer’s shop, he had corrected freshman Latin 
prose exercises for Professor Martin. He had 
driven a delivery wagon for Amends, the grocer, he 
had read proof for the town printer, he had tutored 
in every course in which he had been a student at 
the university—and he had returned to Hephzibah a 
pittance of the money she had given to him. 

Stephen Douglas had adjusted himself to the limi- 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 119 


tations of his lot probably with more good sense 
than the majority. To be a student and at the same 
time a wage earner requires more than ordinary 
physical endurance. Stephen was no weakling but 
he worked with a nervous drive that could not but 
take its toll of energy. Mrs. Prentice, even, had 
left a tea-party she was giving and summoned 
Stephen, at work on the lawn, into the kitchen. 

“Listen to me, young man,” she had said—Mrs. 
Prentice possessed the bluntness of Boston’s highest 
culture, “you’re not to mow my lawn any afternoon 
again until after you’ve had a long glass of milk in 
my kitchen. Seena, do you hear?” she admonished. 

And Seena and Stephen and Mrs. Prentice had all 
smiled. 

Of course he had not been able to afford to join 
a fraternity but the fact that he had been invited to 
become a member of two took the sting out of his 
isolation. Junior year he had gone out for base¬ 
ball, and he had been a member of the university de¬ 
bating team, but both of these delightful diversions 
had been bought at the expense of overwork and 
inhuman economy. 

On the other hand, Stephen had friends, probably 
many more than he ever suspected. Every one liked 


120 


THE SHINING ROAD 


his genuineness. The more intellectual conceded 
his mentality. A few of the most discerning recog¬ 
nized the character that lay behind his adjustment 
to life. He was capable of tremendous discourage¬ 
ment but not of bitterness. He could hate with a 
wholesome Celtic enthusiasm but he was never 
vindictive. He could wish for himself every worldly 
advantage without being envious of those who pos¬ 
sessed them. Stephen had tremendous human 
curiosity. His was amazingly adaptable and he 
possessed the childish talent of dramatizing himself 
in almost any role. His faults were the faults of 
immaturity and he was still capable of being swept 
along by the hypnotic power of a wish. 

Now, as he waited for Billy Kliets, he visualized 
a meeting with Judge Truman. The Judge’s offices 
at once resembled a stage-set he had seen in 
the movies. It was a cross between a drawing room 
and the great reference hall in the New York Public 
Library. The judge wore a frock coat and gray 
spats. He had eagle eyes and a Roman nose and his 
hands were long and distinguished. 

Then Stephen dwelt with satisfaction upon him¬ 
self. He would wear a suit like Billy Kliets’ newest. 
To the conservative, Billy’s taste might be said to 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 121 


run too much in the direction of pockets and belts. 
True, his clothes were made by the best tailor in 
Chicago, but Billy could be insistent upon his own 
suggestions. He also ordered caps to match. They 
were large and pie-shaped and had a button on top. 
Stephen would drive up to the judge’s office in his 
motor. Again the motor belonged to his belated 
pupil. In his daydreams Stephen was a talented 
kleptomaniac, for, in uncensored imaginings, one can 
mobilize stage properties from the ends of the earth 
and no questions asked. 

It was indeed a delightful debauch of imagina¬ 
tion in which Stephen was indulging. The conversa¬ 
tion between himself and the judge was a little more 
difficult to create than the material background. He 
planned, however, that his future employer should 
be impressed by his smartness, his savoir faire , his 
maturity. He would make some adroitly casual 
reference to his motor. Perhaps he might even run 
the judge over to the court-house where he would 
be in the midst of pleading a great murder case. He 
and Stephen would discuss the trial together. The 
judge would ask him his opinion and the shrewdness 
and wisdom of Stephen’s answers would be worthy 
of a Solon. 


122 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Perhaps, at the very steps of the court-house, the 
judge would faint, or have a stroke, and Stephen 
would rush forward, seeing first with self possession 
and despatch that the judge was cared for, defend 
the prisoner himself and free him through the 
irresistible brilliancy of his oratory. It would be the 
sensation of legal annals. The judge on his recovery 
would make him a junior partner—or perhaps 
Stephen would join at once a big firm in Chicago. 
It is difficult, even in day-dreams, to be completely 
sure concerning the details of El Dorado. 

But even as he created Stephen was vaguely op¬ 
pressed by the obstacles. The fact that he couldn’t 
plead a case until he had first been admitted to the 
bar disturbed him less, however, than the non¬ 
possession of the suit with the pockets and the low- 
hung, red-wheeled roadster. Gradually it bore in 
upon him he had been several kinds of a fool to have 
drugged even an idle quarter hour with any such 
imaginings. He was stupider even than Billy Kliets. 
For a moment, indeed, he wondered whether he could 
be quite normal. 

As a punishment for this sortie into the realm of 
the photo-drama Stephen forced himself to contem¬ 
plate actuality. Billy Kliets owed him twenty-five 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 123 


dollars. He would take the early morning train to 
the city, see the judge, who would instantly dismiss 
him, eat lunch at the counter in the station, and come 
back to college in the afternoon. He would have to 
pay some one to take his place at the stationer’s where 
he had arranged to work during the two weeks of 
spring vacation. It would be, without doubt, a 
waste both of time and money. Even Dean Prentice 
assured him his chances were meager. But he knew, 
some way, he was going. One owed it occasionally 
to fate to give her a chance to deal you a lucky hand. 

Then, in a big, showy circle, Billy Kliets rounded 
the corner onto Elm Street and skidded to a tire 
ravaging stop in front of the club house. Stephen 
watched him snap the spark back into position and 
wriggle slimly from under the wheel. Billy Kliets 
owned one of the three automobiles belonging to 
university undergraduates and the most arrogantly 
expensive one. Billy Kliets came from Chicago and 
he should have gone to Yale but his father was an 
old State’s University man and a member of the 
board of trustees who took his position consci¬ 
entiously. Billy went East to prep school but he 
returned, frankly crestfallen, to his father’s hick 
university. 


124 


THE SHINING ROAD 


William Carrington Kliets Senior wished occa¬ 
sionally he had yielded to his son’s choice in the 
matter of a college. At Yale the name of Kliets 
would not have registered so conspicuously. If at 
Yale his son had found it necessary to fail semester 
after semester in freshman Latin and “baby” French 
it would have been annoying but not such a well- 
advertised disgrace. 

In fact, William Kliets Senior had about reached 
the end of his patience. If his son did not pass this 
June he was ready to wash his hands of him. For 
the last time, too, he had allowed his son to over¬ 
draw his allowance—and he had conveyed his inten¬ 
tions to his offspring in no uncertain terms. 

Billy, in Stephen’s opinion, was not stupid but his 
talents could not be said to be academic. He pos¬ 
sessed a genuine though undisciplined love of music 
and he composed with spirit if not with technique. 
Billy was utterly irresponsible, frankly spoiled and 
extremely likable. Stephen knew that he drank and 
gambled and he was sorry—not for any high moral 
reasons but because he knew that Billy stood so 
inevitably to lose. Stephen’s attitude was one of 
tolerant maturity that impressed and at the same time 
irritated his pupil. 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 125 


Billy grinned, a little sheepishly. “Hullo,” he 
said. “Sorry to have kept the professor wait¬ 
ing.” 

Stephen ignored the jibe. “Hullo, yourself,” he 
said. 

They went up to Billy’s room, plastered with 
photographs, with pennants, with pilfered traffic 
warnings. Billy’s tastes were catholic. Glumly he 
lit his pipe, which was one of the dozen that strewed 
the mantelpiece, and sat down on the window 
seat. 

Stephen looked at him and grinned indulgently. 
“It’s pleasant enough here,” he said finally, “but 
you know you pay me for correcting your rot¬ 
ten prose. I might be looking the stuff over 
while you observe the beauties of nature out the 
window.” 

Billy Kliets shifted uneasily. “Look here,” he 
said, “I’ve got to tell you something.” Evidently 
what he had to say was not easy. “I might as well 
spill the whole thing now. I owe you money and I 
can’t pay you. I’m busted—flat, and I’ve borrowed 
every cent I can. Yesterday I got a letter from the 
pater,”—Stephen always smiled, in view of Billy’s 
academic difficulties, at this classical affectation. “He 


126 


THE SHINING ROAD 


says if I don’t get by this spring he’s through.” He 
grinned feebly. “Nothing for me to do then but 
become a missionary. You wouldn’t want me to be 
a missionary, now, would you?” 

Stephen smiled, in spite of his annoyance. “No,” 
he said. “I’ve got too much sympathy for the 
heathen.” 

There was an interval of silence while Billy 
gloomed out the window. “If you go back on me,” 
he said, “it will be the Fiji Islanders and the coco¬ 
nut trees. I can’t get through without you. Some 
way you make that blithering stuff almost sense.” 
Stephen smiled at the genuineness of this tribute. “I 
don’t know when I can pay you. I sold the old bus 
to-day, but I owe that money—even worse.” The 
lines of worry on his face were too deep for a 
youngster. “I don’t know when it will be, but I’ll 
pay you some time. Honest.” 

Stephen looked away suddenly from the pleading 
in his eyes. “Don’t let that keep you awake nights,” 
he said finally. 

But it was a disappointment. Stephen needed that 
money to go up to the city. He wanted a new suit 
with almost the same fervor that he wanted the 
judge to give him a job. For a moment he hated 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 127 

William Kliets Junior. It was completely unfair. 
The whole business. 

Then the inspiration came. 

“When do you have to hand over your car?” he 
demanded. 

Billy turned around slowly. “Two weeks from 
Saturday. Henley bought her. He’s going to be 
out of town till then.” 

Stephen put his proposition baldly. “Loan me that 
car—I can drive it all right—and a suit of clothes. 
That new one you got last week.” On the principal 
of the British Empire it was just as well to demand 
everything and then compromise. “I’m going to go 
down to the city. I’ll be gone one day. Get back late 
that night. I won’t hurt your car or your suit. And 
we’ll call it quits on the payment.” 

Billy considered a moment. “All right,” he said. 
“I’ve got to go home for vacation. The pater may 
wonder why I don’t drive the bus. But I reckon 
there’s nothing for it but let him wonder.” His brow 
drew into an anxious frown. “You can leave it at 
Haskel’s Garage when you come back. I’m paid up 
there till the first of the month. It’s Henley’s baby 
after that.” Then he looked up at Stephen and 
smiled. “You’re the only bird I know I’d loan that 


128 


THE SHINING ROAD 


bus to—even though I’ve sold her. Some day I’m 
going to get her back again—if I have to blow up a 
bank to do it.” 

Stephen had never borrowed before—at least on 
so pretentious a scale, but he was still too exhilarated 
by the thought of his new possessions to consider 
the matter ethically. After all, Billy owed him 
money. This was a perfectly legitimate way of 
absolving a debt. Besides which, Stephen had not 
driven a grocer’s delivery truck for nothing. He 
was clever with machinery and he was not afraid 
of it. 

Instead of devoting a dreary hour to Latin prose 
Stephen tried on the new suit and the vision he had 
of himself in the mirror of Billy Kliet’s dresser gave 
him a distinct thrill of satisfaction. He was cer¬ 
tainly handsome, Stephen concluded, even distin¬ 
guished looking. If he could only be well dressed 
all the time he was convinced there was no society 
so elect as not to welcome him to membership. 

“You’ll take good care of it,” Billy admonished, 
its value having increased in proportion to Stephen’s 
admiration. 

“Sure,” Stephen muttered, absently. He was 
already mentally en route for the big adventure. 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 129 


It seemed to Stephen that the week before spring 
vacation had three times the ordinary number of 
days. It is the season of the year when one is bored 
and restless and the bleak days of reversion to winter 
are particularly hard to bear. 

But the morning Stephen left for the city was 
spring. The willows along the farmers’ ditches 
wore already the delicate yellow green of budding 
leaves and across the black plowed fields drew the 
wet soft wind of April. Stephen was ridiculously, 
unaccountably happy. The roads were slippery with 
the loamy mud and driving was not easy but he en¬ 
joyed the sense of power his own alertness and the 
quick response of the motor gave him. 

He left town in the early morning while the 
country still looked sullen in the gray of misty half 
light. After a tussle with his inclinations he had 
sensibly donned his own suit, the new one lay on the 
seat beside him, heavily wrapped in a Chicago news¬ 
paper. He would stop somewhere before his arrival 
in town and effect a change. The only thing that 
dimmed the joy of living was the knowledge that 
with each turn of the wheels new layers of mud were 
being appended to the car’s shiny smoothness. By 
the time he reached the city it would cease 
9 


130 


THE SHINING ROAD 


to fit into the picture Stephen had created for him¬ 
self. 

But fortune seemed to be playing into his hands. 
Almost as soon as he left the country road Stephen 
happened upon a street which was receiving its semi¬ 
annual flushing. He drew up along the curb where 
a listless Spanish American War veteran held the 
nozzle of the hose pointed more or less in the direc¬ 
tion of the pavement. 

Stephen got out and approached him. “Hello,” 
he said. “Fairly damp around here this morning.” 

The Spanish war veteran spat, thereby augmenting 
the dampness. 

Stephen hesitated a moment. “Wonder if you’d 
let me run a little of that liquid over —my car. Eh ?” 
It had been very easy and quite all right to say 
my. 

For a second the public servant considered and 
Stephen wondered whether the juice of the weed was 
his only medium for self expression. “Guess there 
ain’t no law against it,” he said finally. 

In fifteen minutes the car stood, gleaming and 
magnificent, a steed worthy the most fastidious of 
Lochinvars. The only problem now was to effect 
the change of costume. Stephen was afraid to con- 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 131 


fer with the veteran for fear he might suspect him 
of having stolen the car. 

“S’long,” he said finally. Fortune would have to 
provide—which it did in the form of the wood-shed 
back of a decayed and abandoned civil war mansion 
on the outskirts of town. It was hard not to have 
a mirror, not that he needed it really but for the 
aesthetic satisfaction of seeing himself clothed as 
both he and Billy Kliets believed befitted a gentle¬ 
man. Once in town he stopped at a barber shop, 
more for the joy of reassurance than for a shave. 
At ten o’clock he drove his car to the judge’s office. 

The building was not at all modern or impressive. 
Stephen believed he must be mistaken. Nothing 
about the squat, red brick edifice suggested the 
lawyer’s suite of his daydream. Stephen was 
frankly disappointed. It was like a child’s discovery 
that the mountains are not nearly so high in reality 
as one is able to imagine them. 

Someone pushed open the door from the steep, 
dingy stair-case onto the street. Stephen went up to 
him shyly. “Could you tell me whether Judge Tru¬ 
man has an office here?” 

The stranger looked up at him shrewdly. “He 
has.” Then he smiled. 


132 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“Oh—” The boy’s face was a tell-tale mirror of 
disappointment. Then, after a moment, “You don’t 
happen to know whether he’s in, do you?” 

Again the gentleman smiled. “I happen to know 
that he’s not. In fact he’s on his way to the court¬ 
house where the city and the Mississippi Valley Trac¬ 
tion Company have become involved in a little matter 
of a franchise.” He hesitated a moment. “The 
judge should be in a bit of a hurry. Did you have 
an appointment?” 

Stephen blushed a painful red that stole slowly 
down his neck. “No, I haven’t,” he said finally. 
“But I have a—letter.” He drew out the much 
fingered envelope. “Do—you care to see it now?” 

Judge Truman chuckled. “Another bright young 
man from Bob Prentice. My friend is an optimist.” 

Stephen shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got to 
be if you teach,” he defended. “I know. I’ve 
tutored.” 

Judge Truman appraised him shrewdly over the 
top of the sheet of paper. “Would you mind walk¬ 
ing along with me?” he asked. “It’s a friendly sun 
to-day and we can talk as we go.” He stopped a 
moment. “I’m always interested in Bob Prentice’s 
proteges but it isn’t often I have an opening. My 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 133 

firm’s a small one,” he went on. “Right now it 
chances to be not an inopportune moment to present 
a candidate. We might discuss it en route to the 
court-house.” 

A throb of excitement pounded in Stephen Doug¬ 
las. It was true, then, that nature followed art. 
His daydream was working out like prophecy. “I’ve 
my car here,” he heard himself saying. “Can’t I 
drive you over?” His voice sounded strangely un¬ 
real. It was as though he spoke the lines of another. 

Stephen didn’t notice the glance of surprised 
amusement with which the judge favored him. He 
was too busy shifting gears and manoeuvering de¬ 
lightedly in and out of the traffic. 

“We might take the longest way around,” said 
the judge, “out Center Street and over the bridge. 
I’ll show you.” 

Stephen followed the judge’s instructions. Driv¬ 
ing on Center Street was less arduous and the judge 
asked him questions, most of which, as Stephen re¬ 
membered later, had little to do with the law. They 
talked about the English department at the university, 
about modern American journalism, about the in¬ 
fluence of the Northcliffe press, about realism in 
German drama. The judge treated Stephen’s opin- 


134 


THE SHINING ROAD 


ions with delightful gravity and Stephen expanded 
by the moment under his genial influence. 

This talk was, in short, one of the most pleasant 
experiences that had ever fallen Stephen’s way. 
It was gratifying to be treated as an adult, as an 
equal, and Stephen responded with a naturalness 
that made Judge Truman smile with gentle, remi¬ 
niscent irony. Stephen was so whole-heartedly, so 
naively earnest, so entertainingly young. Entirely 
with intention Judge Truman directed him the very 
longest way around. It was eleven o’clock when 
he said, “better turn to the left here and down the 
hill. Look sharp. It’s a nasty curve at the bottom. 
You can’t see a thing till you’re on it.” 

It was a nasty curve at the bottom and the thing 
that happened there was one of those things nobody 
could either anticipate or avoid. Stephen was run¬ 
ning slowly—even the judge admitted that—but not 
slowly enough perhaps to avoid charging in upon the 
congestion formed by a trolley, a delivery truck, and 
a farm wagon. Stephen slewed sharply to the right, 
up over the curb and jammed into a young poplar, 
tearing its bark and bending it double. 

Neither Stephen nor the judge said anything. 
With a face as white as a sick man’s Stephen got 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 135 


out and looked at the damage. The fender was 
twisted, the right lamp demolished and already a 
stream of steaming water flowed from the radiator. 
For a long moment Judge Truman stood beside 
Stephen but Stephen was unaware of 1 his existence. 
It seemed suddenly as though the end of the world 
had come. He had ruined Billy Kliets’ automobile, 
the automobile that Billy Kliets no longer owned. 
And neither he nor Billy had any money with which 
to repair it. With a terrible throb of apprehension 
Stephen wondered how much it would cost to make 
good the damages. Two hundred. Three hundred 
dollars. He was in an agony of despair and remorse. 
What a fool he had been. What a cheat! 

Finally he was conscious the judge was talking 
to him. “Fll have the emergency repair truck come 
out from the garage,” he was saying. “They’ll be 
here inside of a half hour. Perhaps you better 
wait here for them. I shall have to return on this 
trolley.” He stopped a moment and his shrewd 
eyes observed every detail of the drawn, white face 
beside him. “I am more sorry than I can tell you 
this has happened, Mr. Douglas. I trust your car 
is not badly damaged. These things always appear 
much worse at first.” 


13$ 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Stephen attempted to answer but he found it, at 
once, impossible to speak. 

“You will find my garage entirely reliable,” he 
went on. “Come into the office and see me before 
you go back to college.” Stephen scarcely saw the 
hand that was held out to him. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Douglas.” And the gates of the 
trolley folded closed behind him. He was gone. 

In ten minutes the group of idlers that had col¬ 
lected in the vague hope that someone had been 
hurt dispersed and Stephen was left alone. He 
was afraid to ascertain just what harm had been 
done. It didn’t matter much, he thought finally. 
He had no money since he had sent the last draft 
back to Hephzibah. He wondered what the men 
from the garage would say when he confessed he 
had nothing with which to pay them. He would 
make no attempt to deceive this time. They might 
as well know now as later. 

It seemed to Stephen hours dragged by before 
the “Emergency Car,” startlingly similar to a 
neglected fire wagon, came rattling to a halt. Two 
lean young men in overalls dropped languidly from 
the driver’s seat, favored Stephen with an indifferent 
glance and strolled over to the roadster. They 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 137 


regarded it casually, lifted the hood, touched things 
with slow, enquiring fingers. Stephen felt like an 
anxious watcher outside a sick room while a con¬ 
sultation of physicians was going on inside. He 
was both afraid to know the truth and in a panic 
of impatience. 

Finally he walked over to the men. “Well,” he 
said, “spill it. Have I smashed it for keeps?” 

One of the lean young men straightened up slowly 
and regarded Stephen with suave disdain. “Naw.” 
He waited a moment. “Matter of a smashed lamp, 
a bent fender and a crack in the radiator. You 
could run her now if you had to.” 

Stephen’s spirits rose an infinitesimal degree. 
“How much will it cost?” he asked finally and his 
voice seemed to come from a long way off. 

Again the lean young man surveyed him. The 
expression on his face hinted resentful admiration 
for Stephen’s appearance. He, too, seconded Billy 
Kliets’ taste in suits. “You should worry,” he flung 
off. 

Stephen blushed slowly. “Look here,” he said 
at last. “You’re wrong. I should worry. I’ve got 
exactly five dollars. No kidding.” His earnestness 
was convincingly patent. “This isn’t my car even. 


138 


THE SHINING ROAD 


It was a—loan. I’ve got to return it in the same 
condition I took it. It’s even more important than 
as though it had been mine.” 

The lean young man shrugged his shoulders. 

There was a long moment of silence. Another 
trolley came to a stop, the conductor stepped out, 
swung the long connection pole around to the rear 
of the car, changed the position of the coin box, 
gossiped a moment with the motorman—and the 
car was gone again. All three of them watched the 
maneuvering with the intenseness of livery stable 
loafers who, with the gravity of scientists, observe 
the struggles of a June bug mercilessly turned upon 
his back. 

“We need a fellow for night work,” said the lean 
young man at last. “Regular man’s sick. Know 
anything about machinery?” 

Stephen nodded. 

“Well—” it seemed an aeon before he spoke again. 
“You might make the repairs yourself—and pick up 
enough extra to pay for the lamp and to live on. 
You could use our tools. It’s the labor, you know, 
that counts up.” Again he looked shrewdly at 
Stephen. It was difficult to reconcile those vestments 
with poverty. 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 139 


Stephen calculated rapidly. He had two weeks 
vacation. He might just as well put them in here 
as at the stationer’s shop back at college, besides the 
pay in a city garage was good. 

“Better come along and talk it over with the boss,” 
the young man decided. 

Stephen nodded. “All right,” he said. Then he 
looked, a little shyly, at the young man beside him. 
“I must say you’ve been darn decent about this. 
You can smash up a car in my town any time you 
like.” 

The man laughed. “Shake a foot now, boys,” he 
ordered. 

They lifted the car off the tree, jacked its front 
wheels up onto a truck and started toward town. 
In a half hour Stephen had been employed to fill the 
night man’s vacancy, he had borrowed a suit of 
overalls from Dow Haley, his benefactor, and was 
already at work on his car. It was an old garage 
on a side street, with grimy walls and oil blackened 
floor. Except for small, wire-shielded electric lights, 
which the workmen jerked up and down on pulleys, 
the place had the sepia toned somberness of an old 
Dutch interior. Jim Horton’s garage was neither 
smart nor modern but Jim Horton was, in a small 


140 


THE SHINING ROAD 


way, a genius. He was intuitive about his work in 
the same way that any creative artist is intuitive. 
Tinkering cars was to him a noble calling. Like 
every artist his reward was not the material gain 
but the pleasure of the doing. His workmen made 
fun of him, not even surreptitiously, but the discern¬ 
ing car owners of the town thanked their luck Jim 
Horton had been content to mend their cars instead 
of inventing new cars of his own. 

Jim was at work when Stephen entered and the 
boy had watched him silently. It was a delicate 
piece of adjustment and Stephen looked on, reluc¬ 
tantly absorbed. It was like watching an experiment 
in chemistry. When Jim had finished Stephen 
looked at him, his eyes warm with admiration. 

“Golly, that was pretty,” he said. 

Jim Horton regarded him gravely. “Yes,” he 
said, “and none of my men here would tackle it. 
Don’t know what they miss by passing up the inter¬ 
esting ones.” 

Stephen grinned. “Well, I’d hate to be stuck with 
that job myself, if I was in any hurry to finish the 
same season.” 

“Like machinery?” 

Stephen blushed. “Well enough to want that job 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 141 

your night man’s left for the present.” Then he 
explained about the accident and showed Jim Horton 
the car and they struck a bargain. Jim even said 
Stephen could sleep in the room over the garage and 
he promised to make him a rate on his new lamp. 

Stephen Douglas had the gift of being able to 
live in the present. He was in a panic of haste to 
finish the repairs on the car. He was interested in 
the tools with which he worked and he liked Jim 
Horton. He worked with a desperate intenseness, 
perhaps because, when he was idle, humiliating mem¬ 
ories of his interview with the judge would possess 
him. He was ashamed, not so much of his behavior 
as of the lie behind it. He was like a conscientious 
child that tortures himself for a small dishonesty. 

Often the thought occurred to him how amused 
the judge would be to see him in Dow Haley’s over¬ 
alls washing Fords for Jim Horton. Well, the 
judge would never see him. He would think of him 
as a delightful, pampered young man, if, indeed, he 
thought of him at all, to whom life had been gentle. 
Stephen hoped, on his return to college, Dean Pren¬ 
tice would be content with asking few questions. 
A wave of sick humiliation swept over him when¬ 
ever he conjured up the interview that awaited him. 


142 


THE SHINING ROAD 


For the first time Stephen Douglas made the discov¬ 
ery that work is the only escape from the torments 
the mind can evolve. It is the only dependable Lethe. 

On Friday Billy Kliet’s erstwhile car was again 
whole and beautiful and Stephen looked upon his 
handiwork not without satisfaction. Even Jim Hor¬ 
ton admitted it was good. The old night man had 
returned and to-morrow Stephen would leave for the 
university with five extra dollars to boot. This 
had been an expensive little sortie, to be sure, but 
it might have been infinitely worse. 

Friday evening Stephen, still in grimy overalls, 
and Dow Haley sat in the thinly partitioned off cor¬ 
ner of the big room that passed as the office. Dow 
was ready to leave. He had changed to his other 
suit and his hands were red and chapped from the 
severity of recent washings. Suddenly, the tele¬ 
phone on the desk jangled and Dow swore mightily 
and not under his breath. 

Stephen listened to the words of his co-worker 
with indifference. Apparently somebody was hav¬ 
ing engine trouble on the road into town from the 
Country Club. Stephen was just on the point of 
leaving the office to light a pipe on the sidewalk when 
Dow Haley, receiver in hand, shouted to him. 


SOUNUYl 1-K ' •a\Y s' AOKSTONK u k ; 


"IV me a favorY he asked. 

Stephen's mood was expansive "Sure." 

"Juttip into the Ford and bring a fellow back to 
tow tt He's catching a train and he's at raid to take 
a ch.awv a t has chaudcm s gctr.ug ;:v t’tr.tg hxed 
in time." I'hett he told Stephen how to drive out 
there. "It's a French car," he went on, "only one 
in these parts. You can't miss it." 

Stephen was willing enough to do IVw's stint t'or 
him. He knew Dow was off to take his girl to the 
movies and they were trying to make the tirst show. 
Besides, Stephen was anxious to have a look at the 
foreign car, glad to escape the boredom of the gar¬ 
age, glad to drive out into the sunset. 

It was a long three miles before lie reached them, 
the strange looking car drawn up at the side of the 
road, the trimly accoutered legs of the chauffeur pro 
truding from under, Stephen came to a stop just 
behind the big car and grinned at the driver, exas¬ 
perated and covered w ith mud, who was w riggling 
out to select something from his tool box, 

Stephen interpreted his wish. "Better let me 
caddy tor you," he suggested. "Which pliers do you 
want ? These ?" 

The chauffeur grunted an affirmative. 


144 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Stephen dropped down on his hands and knees 
and squinted up at the gear shaft. “Here,” he said, 
“let me hold your flash light. See now?” 

Again the chauffeur mumbled something. For 
several minutes Stephen squatted there. From the 
back seat above him he could hear the sound of 
voices, the deeper tones of the men and a girl’s laugh. 
He wondered what kind of people owned a car like 
this. He had never seen anything so opulent, any¬ 
thing so disdainfully perfect. 

Then he heard the door open and heard it slammed 
shut again. There were foot-steps beside him and 
he looked up suddenly into the eyes of Judge Tru¬ 
man. Slowly Stephen Douglas got to his feet. His 
face was crimson with embarrassment, but, perhaps, 
in the twilight the judge did not notice. Indeed the 
judge’s face did not change expression. Perhaps, 
after all, he had not been recognized. It was dusk 
already and the grimy person in Dow Haley’s over¬ 
alls resembled very little the smart young gentleman 
of Billy Kliet’s magnificence. 

“I’ve come out from Jim Horton’s,” said Stephen, 
“to take you back to town.” 

The judge snapped open his watch. “I ought to 
go this minute. Oh Constance—” Judge Truman 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 145 


turned back to the others and something made 
Stephen follow him. “With any luck you and David 
ought to pilot this excellent static car of mine into 
town before midnight/’ 

The girl whom he had called Constance laughed. 
“Luckily I’ve a winter coat on and I rather like the 
view from here.” She turned to the young man be¬ 
side her. “Can you tolerate it another hour or so?” 

The young man looked at her, Stephen noticed, 
and not at the landscape. “I can,” he said. 

Stephen too looked at Constance Truman and a 
pang of envy swept through him. He supposed this 
was the way that peasants in the old world stood in 
the roadside, cap in hand, and stared at the gentry. 
She was lovelier than any woman he had ever seen. 
Her eyes were blue and he liked her delicate round 
chin and the wistful graveness of her face. She 
had more than prettiness, she had intelligence. She 
might even have humor. 

Judge Truman gave her the brief, undirected kiss 
of a parent, shook hands with David Sargent and 
turned to Stephen. “Thank all the gods of trans¬ 
portation there are still cheap American cars that 
run.” 

Stephen cranked the Ford with one turn and leapt 


10 


146 


THE SHINING ROAD 


into the car already in vibrating, half-perceptible mo¬ 
tion. Judge Truman followed him, a little gingerly, 
made a valiant effort to close the door in a well-bred 
fashion, then gave it a crashing slam. 

For several moments nobody spoke. Twice 
Stephen cast a curious glance at the man beside him 
—but the judge’s eyes were on the road ahead and 
he appeared absorbed in his thoughts. Well, 
Stephen concluded, he hadn’t been recognized. Per¬ 
haps, even though he had reappeared in the role of 
gentleman, the judge might not have remembered 
him. After all, he was probably a very commonplace 
young man in whose mold there existed hundreds. 
The idea was unflattering but at the same time it 
made the situation less embarrassing. 

Finally the judge turned toward him. ‘‘Have you 
ever read anything of Schnitzler’s, Mr. Douglas?” 
he asked. 

Stephen gave a start. “Yes, sir. ‘Der Einsame 
Weg.’ It wasn’t in the course.” Then after a mo¬ 
ment’s silence. “I should like to go to Vienna.” 

Judge Truman scrutinized the young profile be¬ 
side him and he smiled slowly. “I should too.” 
Again there was an interval of silence. “He has 
a charm we middle western Puritans are taught par- 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 147 


takes of the devil. His beauty is both fastidious and 
immoral. He is honest and at the same time roman¬ 
tic. Schnitzler makes Vienna an enchanted city. 
He endows life with a hundred forbidden ^tense¬ 
nesses.” He hesitated a moment, “It must be delight¬ 
fully painful to be young and read Schnitzler.” 

Stephen grinned reminiscently. “It wasn’t easy 
to go back to ‘Minna von Barnhelm’ afterwards— 
and get any kick out of it.” Then he wondered how 
the judge had understood so much about Schnitzler. 
He had always believed adults persisted in the Olym¬ 
pian contention that they were above temptation, that 
they beheld in temptation only sordidness and the 
“wages of sin,” never beauty or romance or poetry. 
Sin, in the middle west, was not supposed to possess 
any aesthetic value. 

Suddenly Stephen thought of the romantic mo¬ 
tives back of his own masquerade. How pretentious 
it had been and ridiculous. He was ashamed now, 
not so much of the lie he had tried to perpetrate but 
of the childishness of his desire to escape from real¬ 
ity into a world of make-believe. What a fool the 
judge must think him. What a magnificent fool he 
was! 

“Judge Truman,” he said finally. “I owe you an 


148 


THE SHINING ROAD 


apology. I tried to pretend I was rich. ,, He made 
an embarrassed gesture of appeal. “It’s obvious, 
of course, I’m not. That car wasn’t mine, or the 
suit or the hat—or the manner.” He hesitated a 
moment. It was difficult to go on—even to him¬ 
self. “I don’t think I planned it all just to impress 
you,” he said. “I think I wanted to cut a dash with 
myself. To-night I thought you didn’t recognize me. 
I hoped you wouldn’t.” Again he was silent. “Any 
way, Judge Truman, you can’t think me half as big 
a fool as I think myself.” 

They had reached the city now. The episode was 
almost closed. 

“Where to, sir?” Stephen asked at last. 

“The Union Station.” 

The entrance to the station was already crowded 
so Stephen drew up along the curb a little further 
on and handed the judge’s suit case out to him. 
Though the train for Chicago had already been 
called the judge did not seem in a hurry. Stephen 
waited for him to leave, to say good-bye, if he was 
especially forgiving, to shake hands. 

“Mr. Douglas,” he said finally, “you’ll find a lot 
of books in my library beside law books and you’re 
welcome to any of them. There will be, however, 


SCHNITZLER VERSUS BLACKSTONE 149 


more times that I shall have to consult with you 
about one volume of Blackstone than all the things 
that Schnitzler ever wrote.” 

Stephen stared down at him in amazement. Was 
the world entirely incredible or could he have mis¬ 
understood? “Judge Truman,” he said, “am I 
crazy, sir,—or are you?” 

The most distinguished lawyer in the state 
chuckled. “We’ll go into that later—after you’ve 
started working for me. Have in mind that I won’t 
pay you as well as they did at Jim Horton’s garage.” 
He picked up his bag from the side-walk. “But you 
may find it an equally interesting place to work. I 
hope so.” 

Stephen was standing beside him now, his cap in 
his hands. He felt baffled and a little guilty and 
ecstatically happy. “Judge Truman,” he said at last, 
“I don’t deserve this.” And he half believed it was 
true. 

Again the big man chuckled. “It isn’t as though 
I didn’t know something about you,” he said. “In 
the first place Robert Prentice mentioned in that 
letter you brought me, unopened, that you were 
working your way through college. In the second 
place, I asked Jim Horton to give you a job—he’s 


150 THE SHINING ROAD 

an old friend of mine.” Again the judge stopped 
and smiled. “He says if I don’t take you he will. 
Good-bye now, Mr. Douglas, until June.” 

Stephen took a step after him. Then he stopped. 
Several people stared at Stephen as he stood there 
on the sidewalk. Perhaps they wondered why a 
shabby young man in overalls should look suddenly 
as though all the riches of the earth had been poured 
at his feet, as though the streets of the beautiful 
Vienna stretched out before him in the eternal land 
of Romance. 


CHAPTER V 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 

T I EPHZIBAH PRESTON waited until she had 
1 1 finished the dinner dishes, hung the cottage 
cheese to drain, a pasty white gourd in a sugar sack, 
and cleaned the ashes out of the kitchen range be¬ 
fore she allowed herself to go up to Stephen’s room. 
Stephen was out in the fields, already at work. Yes¬ 
terday afternoon she had met him at the station 
in Green Mountain. The train from Des Moines 
was late and together they had driven home against 
the sunset. They were silent at first and oppressed 
by that curious embarrassment all shy people feel 
who care much for each other. 

“You still wriggle your nose like when you was 
little,” said Hephzibah finally. 

Stephen twisted around toward her and laughed. 
“Not much gets by you, Aunt Hephzibah.” With 
an impetuous, boyish movement he slipped his arm 
through hers and pressed it an instant against his 


152 


THE SHINING ROAD 


side. ‘‘Gosh, I’ll bet this nag could drive us home 
blind-folded.” 

Hephzibah Preston nodded. “I ’low so.” 

A dozen times she had glanced up at him, shyly. 
He was a man now, she supposed. He had been 
to the university and he must know a great deal. 
Even Judge Squires had conceded Stephen’s marks 
satisfied, except in Latin. 

“Eheu fugaces, but the lad’s a contradiction,” the 
old judge had grumbled. “He’ll be a great man— 
or a great failure. It’s a flip of the die which.” 

Hephzibah Preston had not the gift of speech, 
but she was as wise as Farewell Squires. Stephen, 
she knew, had a thousand potentialities—for achieve¬ 
ment, for joy, for despair. Perhaps for the very 
flaws in his character she loved him. 

All the way home from the station she wanted to 
tell him she was happy and proud. Proud he had 
passed his examinations, that he had secured the 
position in Judge Truman’s office. Happy because 
he was young and handsome and close to her, his 
arm touching hers, his breath on her cheek when he 
spoke. 

On the edge of the village by the Lutheran Church 
they had met a woman driving a team of farm horses. 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 


153 


She sat high on the driver’s bench, and her body 
yielded to the rough jolting of the wagon with some¬ 
thing that was almost grace. Under a too pink hat* 
massed with cheap cotton roses, stared a pair of 
brown eyes, deep set and challenging. Her cheeks 
glowed warm under a soft bronzed skin and her 
teeth were very white. 

As the two wagons passed, Stephen’s eves held 
the woman’s for an instant. Then she was gone, the 
pink roses flopping and nodding. “Who’s she ?” he 
demanded. 

Hephzibah Preston looked up at him sharply. 
“Why, don’t you remember? She’s Wagner’s 
Anna.” 

“Oh—” He did not remember distinctly. He 
had been just a boy when it happened and he some 
way did not want to ask now. “Well,” he said 
finally, “she’s a looker.” 

“Yes, she’s pretty.” 

They had crossed the bridge above the millpond 
now. In the west hung flecks of white clouds against 
a sunset of orange, and the shadows of the willow 
hedge stretched black across the fields. The next 
turn would bring them in sight of the farmhouse, 
and Zeke would be watching. She must talk to him 


154 


THE SHINING ROAD 


now. She must tell him about Zeke and how irri¬ 
table the slowly knitting arm had made him, about 
the money for her trip back to Vermont, her first 
visit since she had left for the West, young and 
gray-eyed and valiant. 

“There’s the pigpen we hid old Stranger in. Re¬ 
member?” He pointed and his eyes grew tender. 

She smiled up at him and nodded. “You was 
seven then, and I was—” She hesitated. “Well, I 
was some younger. He’s dead now. Zeke fixed 
his grave up real nice in the willow lot. Funny, 
Zeke kept callin’ him a cur, even to the last, and 
doin’ for him all the time.” 

The boy smiled, and the look of tenderness did 
not leave his face. “Technically Zeke’s right. But 
it takes more than one kind of thoroughbred to make 
a dog like Stranger.” 

With a quick, half-timid gesture she leaned over 
and touched his hand. “It was good of you, Stevie, 
to come back—postponin’ your new job and all.” 
She hesitated, for this had not been easy to say. 
“Zeke—he can’t seem to keep a hired man. You 
know, he ain’t simple to work fur. When he broke 
his arm I wrote you. I knew I was askin’ a lot for 
you to give up the city and all the interestin’ things 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 155 


you’ve got there. But it seemed some way as though 
I owed it to Zeke—and you did.” She was watching 
his face with pitiful intentness. “He ain’t always 
seen things in exactly the same light as you and me, 
but he’s proud of you too. You should hear him 
boastin’ about your marks over to Green Mountain.” 

A quick flush of embarrassment stained his cheeks. 
“Lord, Aunt Hephzibah, you’d think I discovered 
college.” 

She laughed, a little uneasily. “Make a joke of 
it if you want to. It’s true.” The gray mare broke 
into a trot. They were almost home now. “Stevie,” 
she said at last, “there’s somethin’ else I gotta tell 
you.” 

The anxiety in her voice caught his attention. 

It was a long moment before she spoke again. “I 
ain’t told Zeke you sent that fifty dollars. I—I just 
kept it myself.” 

The boy’s brows knit in a puzzled frown. “Well, 
why should you tell him?” he said finally. “Zeke’s 
not the angel Gabriel. Besides, it was your money.” 
His voice was full of conviction. “Bije Matthews 
was your uncle, and he left that money to you. If 
you wanted to waste most of it on the education of 
a poor fish like me, I don’t see why you shouldn’t 


THE SHINING ROAD 


156 

grab off thankfully the little bit I left over and cut 
loose.” 

“Stephen!” But he delighted her. “Well, maybe 
I will. Maybe while you’re here to run the farm, 
I’ll just pack up and leave for a mite. Things have 
changed back home, I ’low, but”—her voice trailed 
off—“I ’spect they’ve still got stone fences there, 
’stead of wire, and elderberry bushes and there’s a 
blue mist evenin’s around Eagle Top, if the day’s 
been hot enough.” This was a long speech, and 
Hephzibah was embarrassed, but the look in the 
boy’s face reassured her. 

“I know,” he said. “A Frenchman wrote a poem 
about that once. He called it ‘Souvenir.’ That 
means remembrance.” He flopped the reins upon 
the broad back of old Nelly. “I’ve even felt that 
way about this farm. I’ve been homesick for the 
squeak of the barn door and for Zeke to nag me to 
fix that rotten second-hand gas pump.” There was 
a moment of silence. “But mostly, I reckon, for 
you.” 

Hephzibah did not answer. Life holds only a few 
precious moments and this was too precious to risk 
marring with words. 

In the kitchen sat Zeke, his arm in a grotesque, 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 157 


bulging sling and his lean weather-hardened face 
ashen gray against the white of the bandage. He got 
up stiffly and confronted them. 

The boy’s face glowed with welcome. He grasped 
the man’s left hand with a friendly pressure. 
“Pretty spry to be up and around, I’m thinking.” 

Zeke Preston withdrew his hand. “The Prestons 
die with their boots on,” he answered. He was 
weak still, and his lips were blue with fatigue. 
“Damn horse kicked me—right in the midst of the 
plantin’ season too. I ’low I didn’t get this thing 
tied up soon enough.” He pointed to the bandaged 
arm. “Thought it was only a bruise, not a bust,” 
he amended. With narrowed eyes he appraised the 
boy. “I ’low you’ve forgot all about farmin’ by this 
time, ain’t you, what with your fine learnin’ and all ?” 

The boy smiled. “I ’low I haven’t. Anyway,” 
he pacified, “you’re here to boss.” 

Hephzibah’s eyes shot Stephen a look of gratitude. 
She had never heard the word tact , but she knew 
Stephen Douglas was behaving admirably. 

All that evening as she watched him she had won¬ 
dered. He had been away so long. There were 
many things she wanted to know much more than 
the names of the courses he had taken at the uni- 


158 


THE SHINING ROAD 


versity. But she was too wise to ask him questions. 
The things that really mattered she knew she must be 
sure of first before she talked to him about them at 
all. It takes love and skill and time to discover these 
things, and Hephzibah Preston was impatient. 

Ever since the moment Stephen had tumbled his 
cheap little trunk into the wagon behind her she 
had felt this might contain a clue to the mysteries. 
It was a ridiculous tin trunk with a big hump on top 
and a scene from the Swiss Alps pasted inside the 
cover. She remembered the day, a week before he 
had left for the university, that she had packed it 
first. There had been only enough for two trays 
then, despite the extra socks and mufflers and shining 
red apples she had hidden away. 

Now the trunk was not shining, and it was full. 
One by one she lifted out the curious assortment of 
things a boy collects at college and holds precious 
for a few brief years. In the bottom of the trunk 
was a notebook, evidently started when Stephen had 
entered Judge Truman’s office. It contained jottings 
concerning Supreme Court decisions, misspelled and 
in the hasty, illiterate handwriting of youth. Curi¬ 
ously Hephzibah turned over the pages. The words 
meant nothing to her, but she could picture the boy 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 159 


as he wrote them, pink-cheeked and in a frenzy of 
haste to get on. 

Suddenly she stopped. Staring up from the page 
was a photograph, cut from a newspaper. “Con¬ 
stance Truman leads Grand March at Charity Ball, ,, 
ran the caption. Judge Truman’s daughter! It was 
a slender face, delicate and patrician, and the eyes 
were kind. For a long time she looked at it as 
though she gazed into the future. Constance Tru¬ 
man! She liked the name, she liked the face, 
stamped on the cheap, torn paper. There were wis¬ 
dom and character and charm in that face and the 
vision of half-glimpsed loveliness. 

Suddenly the door to the room was pushed open, 
and Stephen stood at the threshold. His face was 
scarlet already from the sun and very handsome. 
“Hello,” he said, “you haven’t seen my pliers around 
here anywhere? Zeke’s tools were old when the 
Aztecs homesteaded Mexico.” 

“You might look in that box.” She pointed—and 
the tiny clipping fluttered to the floor. 

Hephzibah stooped to recover it. For a moment 
neither spoke. “This was in your notebook,” she 
said at last. “I suppose she’s your employer’s 
daughter.” 


i6o THE SHINING ROAD 

The boy nodded. 

Hephzibah smoothed out the paper and handed it 
to him. “Have you met her?” she asked timidly. It 
seemed some way she must know. 

Again the boy nodded. “Three times.” He was 
still looking at the face on the paper. “Once she 
came into the office, and once the judge invited me 
out to dinner. And once I called.” His lips twisted 
into a disagreeable smile, and he laid the picture on 
the dresser. “Quite a romance.” This was meant 
to be funny. “Up-from-the-farm stuff!” 

Hephzibah looked away from his eyes. “Some 
way I ’low she wouldn’t care what a body was up 
from. She don’t seem dumb like that,” she an¬ 
swered. 

For a second he watched her strangely. He had 
not meant to discuss this. It would be so long be¬ 
fore he could meet the girl again, before he could 
ever meet her as an equal. “No,” he said, “she’s 
not dumb like that. But you’ve got to offer her 
something, it doesn’t matter whether you learned it 
at Harvard—or husking corn in Iowa. Only husk¬ 
ing corn in Iowa goes so damn slow.” His voice 
was lower now, and there was a hard look in his 
eyes. “She’s not going to be there forever, waiting 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 161 


—even for a Daniel Webster. And I reckon I’m no 
Daniel.” 

Hephzibah looked at him slyly. “Oh, I don’t 
know as Daniel was so much either at twenty-one,” 
she ventured. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” 

He started abruptly for the stairway. “I’ve got 
to fix that cultivator.” At the door he stopped and 
looked back at her. How tall and lithe and hand¬ 
some he was, even in the dirty overalls. She won¬ 
dered why she once had worried for fear he wouldn’t 
grow. “I’m sorry I blew up,” he began. “I reckon 
my disposition hasn’t changed much—in spite of 
all the culture I’ve shipped.” 

Hephzibah Preston smiled at him. “Well, I ’low 
I wouldn’t want you perfect.” Contrary to her New 
England traditions, she would have wished him 
happy. The capacity even to appreciate the value 
of happiness is not common. Hephzibah possessed 
it. More than she wished for him a crown in 
heaven, she wished for him contentment on earth. 
There is something almost magnificent in the can¬ 
did selfishness with which a woman loves. 

When Stephen came home she had believed it 
would be for a month, six weeks at the most, long 
enough for Zeke’s arm to recover and for her to 


ii 


162 


THE SHINING ROAD 


make the visit back to Vermont. But Zeke’s arm 
did not heal. At first he did not complain, a grim 
pride forbade him to whimper. But his cheeks 
grew sunken, and his eyes held fever lights. Per¬ 
sistent in his belief that Stephen had forgotten how 
to farm Zeke followed him about like a malicious 
shadow, querulous and autocratic. 

Once, in the pigpen, Zeke objected to a feeder 
Stephen had evolved. “Dum foolishness,” he com¬ 
plained. “A hog knows when he’s empty and when 
he’s full.” 

Stephen shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not so sure 
of the porcine intelligence. Anyway, this arrange¬ 
ment gives the little fellows a chance.” 

A flush streaked the pallor of Zeke’s cheeks and 
his whole frame trembled. “Since when have you 
been owner of this farm ?” he demanded. His voice 
was husky with anger. “I’ll have you know I’m 
boss here yet. You haven’t laid me aside as done 
for. No, sir”—he struck his fist against the paling 
of the gate—“no, sir, this ain’t your farm yet, you— 
you foundling.” 

All the blood drained out of the boy’s face, and 
he made a step forward when Zeke swayed and with 
clumsy fingers caught at the wooden paling. Sur- 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 163 


prise routed the anger in Stephen's heart. In an 
instant he had caught Zeke and the man’s eyes flick¬ 
ered open. 

“It’s the heat here,” Stephen muttered. “You’ll 
be better in a minute.” 

Half leading, half carrying him, Stephen piloted 
Zeke toward the house and up the steps. He was 
quiet now and, unprotesting, he let Stephen and 
Hephzibah undress him and put him to bed. Then 
Stephen drove to Green Mountain for the doctor. 

Zeke was sick, sicker than they had believed. It 
would be months before he could manage the farm 
again. Months. With the cruel vividness of youth 
Stephen conjured up the ruin of his own hopes. All 
his brave plans to be a lawyer, a judge some day, 
would come to nothing. For an instant, too, he saw 
the face of Constance Truman, and he smiled grimly. 
It was a windy day and whirlpools of dust twisted 
across the road, powdering his clothes and stinging 
his eyes. A wave of resentment surged over him. 
He hated this country, low-lying and tame and fer¬ 
tile. He hated his life. 

At the comer by the Lutheran Church he jerked 
his horse up sharply to avoid running into a woman. 
“Fool,” he muttered savagely. 


164 


THE SHINING ROAD 


It was Wagner’s Anna. The wind caught her 
skirt around her so smoothly that the lines of her 
body appeared for an instant as revealed as the con¬ 
tours of a Rodin figure. She was beautiful. With 
a sudden, disquieting quickening of every pulse, he 
felt her presence. An instant their eyes sought each 
other, and there was something shameless and savage 
and honest in that glance. Then she was gone, the 
wind twisting and swirling the pink gingham folds 
of her dress. 

That afternoon the doctor in Green Mountain 
telegraphed to a surgeon in Des Moines to come at 
once prepared to operate. It would take Zeke a long 
time to get well. 

Hephzibah and Stephen never talked of the boy’s 
disappointment. Weeks stretched into months and 
over the rolling acres glistened the slender stalks of 
corn, already as high as a man’s shoulder. On a cot 
in the parlor Zeke still lay, his face as gaunt as the 
face of an apostle in an early Italian painting. He 
spoke little, and he never complained, but his moody 
silence became even harder to bear than his old im¬ 
patience. He would get well, the doctor from Des 
Moines had promised, but he would venture no pre¬ 
diction about the date. 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 165 


Hephzibah no longer talked of her trip to Ver¬ 
mont, and Stephen seldom now dreamed of the city 
and Judge Truman’s office. He was too busy all 
day and too fatigued at night to have much leisure 
either for hope or despair. He had been penned in 
by fate, and that fate was represented by one hun¬ 
dred and sixty acres of farmland in Iowa. 

Once Hephzibah found an unfinished letter he had 
started to Judge Truman’s daughter, hurried and 
misspelled and boyish. He had begun it one Sun¬ 
day afternoon, and into it he had put all the longing 
and rebellion he had never expressed in words. It 
was without a signature and obviously never in¬ 
tended to be posted. Without knowing why Hephzi¬ 
bah took it and hid it in her bureau drawer, under¬ 
neath the drawn-work handkerchief she had carried 
as a bride. 

The last of August the church in Green Mountain 
gave its annual harvest home supper and dance, and 
Hephzibah persuaded Stephen to attend. The sup¬ 
per was given in the basement of the church, but for 
the dance the mayor had donated his newly finished 
barn. With the wide doors open and the windows 
still without panes the room was cool and fragrant 
yet with the scent of the lumber. Over the floor, 


i66 


THE SHINING ROAD 


planed neatly for the occasion, cornmeal had been 
springled, and two fiddles and a flute furnished the 
music. 

Stephen felt himself apart from the frolic, and he 
achieved even a melancholy satisfaction from his 
solitude. At the dance he stood in the doorway, 
watching. The room was lighted by the flicker of 
a dozen kerosene lanterns, suspended from the raf¬ 
ters, which left the corners of the place in shadow 
and gave to it a curious effect of vastness. Out¬ 
side, in the warm, heavy twilight flashed a million 
fireflies, and the air was sweet with the smell of hay 
and wild clover. 

Suddenly the fiddle struck up a waltz, an old Aus¬ 
trian folk dance with a curious, impelling rhythm. 
Stephen had heard the tune many times but to-night 
it awoke something in him. He wanted to dance. 
Suddenly beside him in the doorway appeared Wag¬ 
ner’s Anna. She had been helping in the basement 
with the supper. 

“Come on,” he said. 

For a second she looked at him. “I can’t. My 
folks are going home.” 

“Old Wagner?” 

She nodded. 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 167 


“I’ll drive you back.” His arm was around her, 
and they swung on to the floor. He held her so 
close he could feel her breathe, and the smell of her 
hair was in his nostrils. He had always known 
some way she could dance. It was a tune her mother 
had danced to and her grandmother, and other men, 
in some far-away village, had held them with the 
same unwitting passion and felt the soft warmth 
of their arms. 

At the end of the dance they stood near the door 
again, and he followed her. into the twilight. 

“Wait here by the shed,” he said, “and I’ll hitch 
up.” 

In five minutes he was back, and he helped her 
up on to the driver’s seat beside him. Out of the 
sleeping village they jogged in silence. The moon 
had risen now and hung, low and yellow, over the 
rustling corn fields. He could see her face plainly. 
Her hat was off, and her disheveled hair was coiled 
in a knot low in her neck. No wonder men had 
loved her! Then he thought of the Austrian fellow 
who had gone West, who had deserted her, and he 
wondered if she still cared for him. 

“Funny what moonlight does to this country,” he 
said finally. “To-day I hated it, but it’s all changed 


168 


THE SHINING ROAD 


now.” He thought suddenly of the moor in “The 
Return of the Native.” He wanted to tell her about 
it—but, of course, she wouldn’t understand. 

The wagon lurched over the railroad track, and 
their shoulders touched. The next turn brought 
them in view of the Wagner’s farm and the lights 
from the kitchen windows. 

“Better stop here by the gate,” she said. 

He drew the horse to a halt, twisted the reins 
around the whipsocket, and got out. Then he held 
his hands up to help her over the dusty wheel. For 
a second she stood there above him, her pink dress 
strangely white in the moonlight. Then she slid 
down into his arms, and he caught her to him. 

“Anna!” 

She lifted her face, and he pressed his mouth 
against her with a merciless, awkward fierceness. It 
was the first time he had ever kissed a woman when 
it mattered. Suddenly he released her and stepped 
back against the side of the wagon. 

“I’m goin’ to prayer meetin’ Wednesday night,” 
she said. “The Wagners will be away to the State 
Fair.” 

He didn’t make any answer, but they both knew he 
would be there, waiting for her, in the moonlight. 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 169 

When the cooler nights arrived Zeke became 
stronger. He was walking about now, but he did not 
interfere with Stephen or any of the plans for the 
harvest. He seemed so amenable that once Heph- 
zibah mentioned to Stephen her visit to Vermont. 

“He’s feelin’ fair to middlin’ now,” she said, “and 
I’d only dare to go while you are still here to man¬ 
age.” 

They were sitting on the back steps, looking out to 
the sunset. He made no answer, and she looked up at 
him sharply. He had grown older that summer she 
thought, and his face looked haggard under its tan. 

“I—I ’low you’ll be going back to the city come 
next October,” she ventured. 

He knew she wanted his confidence, but he was 
in no mood for confession. “I don’t know,” he an¬ 
swered, “maybe I won’t be going back this fall. 
Maybe I’ll rent the Stump place from Smart and 
keep on—being a farmer.” 

“Stephen!” 

The anxiety in her voice startled him. “Well, 
what’s wrong with that?” he combated. 

“Nothin’—” She was quick to make amends. 
“Nothin’—only we’d planned somethin’ else for you, 
somethin’ bigger.” 


170 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“Bigger.” His voice was full of scorn. “I reckon 
you and I have spent an awful lot of time overesti¬ 
mating me.” 

She stretched out her hand and touched his sleeve. 
“What’s the matter, Stevie ?” 

“Nothing.” 

The next evening after supper Stephen changed 
his overalls for the blue serge suit he had worn 
home from college. Hephzibah sensed he did not 
want his change of costume commented on or his 
early departure from the kitchen. With the pre¬ 
text of going out to see the new calf Hephzibah 
followed him to the barn. He was hitching the 
mare to the spring wagon. 

“Stephen,” she said, “would you fetch some 
hoarhound drops from the drug store for Zeke’s 
cough?’” 

He finished fastening the straps to the whiffletree, 
then he turned toward her slowly. “I’m not going 
to town.” 

“No?” 

The fact he knew she would not press him for in¬ 
formation made his reticence an affront. He had 
not meant to tell her, to tell any one. Still, he sup¬ 
posed she would have to know some time. 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 171 


“I’m going over to Wagner's/’ he said finally, 
“to see Anna.” 

“Oh-” 

Instantly Stephen was on the defensive. “I don’t 
care what the folks around here say,” he blustered, 
“she’s better than they are. She’s real, she’s human. 
But, mostly, she makes you forget the things you’ve 
wanted—and can’t have!” 

“I know.” Her voice was quiet. “And she’s 
beautiful.” 

The boy’s surprise was patent. “I—I didn’t sup¬ 
pose you’d understand.” 

“Perhaps I don’t—all,” she answered. 

There was a moment of silence, and the mare 
stamped, impatient at the flies. “I better be off,” he 
said. “Old Nelly’s getting restless.” 

Hephzibah’s eyes were on the last streak of scar¬ 
let over the meadows. “She loved a man once, an 
Austrian fellow, but he went off West. He always 
said he’d send money back to fetch her. Maybe he 
never got ahead that much—” Her voice trailed 
off, “maybe he’s forgot her. I ’low life hasn’t been 
any too easy with her aunt and uncle since, either.” 

She watched him drive down the lane and turn 
on to the State road. Long after he had disap- 



172 


THE SHINING ROAD 


peared her eyes stared into the twilight. So he 
hadn’t been going to town any of the evenings he 
had driven down the lane and turned on to the State 
road! Then her lips moved in silence. “He ain’t 
done it yet,” she repeated. “I still got a chance.” 

Two days later Hephzibah drove Old Nelly 
toward the village and hitched her in the shade of 
the willow grove above the abandoned mill. Bees 
hummed in the dusty thicket of goldenrod and blue¬ 
bottles, with gaudy wings, darted over the black 
surface of the pool. In the shadow of the wheel 
shed Hephzibah waited. It was already a quarter 
past three and she had written three. Then she 
heard the rattle of pebbles on the gravel path and 
Anna appeared. 

Hephzibah took a step toward her, shy and awk¬ 
ward. “I—I was afraid maybe you hadn’t got the 
letter.” A pile of lumber, weather-beaten and dis¬ 
carded, offered a sort of bench. “We might as well 
sit down and be comfortable, don’t you think?” 

There was something disarming in Hephzibah’s 
awkwardness. “I suppose so,” Anna said. 

For a long moment the two women sat there. To 
the tip of a hickory branch over head a squirrel ex¬ 
plored a trembling passage. Anna lifted her face 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 173 


to watch him, revealing the long line of her throat 
and the beautiful contour of her head. 

Hephzibah’s eyes never left the girl beside her. 
“I—’low it’s only natural for men to love you,” 
she said finally. 

With a glance that was at once surprised and fierce 
and yet curious the girl met her eyes, but she did 
not speak. 

“I ’low, too, there aren’t many that could look at 
you without wantin’ to have you notice them,” 
Hephzibah went on. “It ain’t wicked. It’s sort of 
a gift, I suppose, like havin’ a talent for sing- 
in’.” 

The fierceness vanished slowly from Anna’s 
face. 

“Women like you have got the power to bring 
some man great happiness. You ain’t humdrum and 
ordinary, like me,” she said. “You got a gift for 
makin’ each day somethin’ new and surprisin’, not 
just another yesterday—I mean, if you marry a man 
you love.” 

Anna’s body was tense with a sort of inarticulate 
misery and rebellion. “But nothin’ ever comes 
right,” she said, “nothin’.” 

Hephzibah Preston looked away from the agony 


174 


THE SHINING ROAD 


on her face. “I know. I ’low there ain’t hardly a 
woman as hasn’t thought that. But you’re young 
yet.” 

Wagner’s Anna shrugged her shoulders. 

“You ain’t been very happy here?” she ventured. 

The girl’s eyes were challenging. “Well, what 
would you think?” 

“Suppose the man who went West was to see you 
again. Suppose you was to walk into the shack in 
the mountains where he was cookin’ his own dinner. 
He’s a prospector, ain’t he ?” 

Anna nodded. 

“Suppose you was to come back to him like a 
dream, only really you, would he want you to stay ? 
Would you want him to want you?” 

For a long time the girl stared across the pool 
where the bluebottles darted. “What’s the use of 
imaginin’ ?” she said finally, but her brow tightened 
into a frown of speculation. “No,” she said, “I 
wouldn’t go back to him, even if he crawled all the 
way to Green Mountain on his knees.” Her voice 
was dull and monotonous. “Funny, though,” she 
went on, “I don’t hate him—now. It’s like bein’ mad 
at the lightnin’ for having struck the barn. The 
lightnin’ don’t care.” She stopped, groping her way 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 175 


to expression. “But I reckon he burned somethin’ 
up in me. Nothin’ matters much, even Steve. I 
don’t reckon I want anythin’—except to get away 
from here. I thought Steve would take me to Des 
Moines, but he says he couldn’t make a livin’ there. 
He wants to rent the Stump place. The Stump 
place—” Her voice was thin with mockery. 

“Supposin’ you was to get the money to go to 
Des Moines, enough so you could live comfortable 
till you found some kind of work you like—” 
Dumbly Hephzibah prayed she might not blunder. 
“Do you ’low that would make you happy?” 

A dull color mounted in the girl’s cheeks. “I 
ain’t misunderstandin’ you,” she said slowly. “It’s 
Steve you’re thinkin’ of.” 

Hephzibah met her eyes squarely. “Mostly.” 

There was another long moment of silence. A 
chipmunk scurried through the dusky leaves that 
choked the thicket and somewhere a wood thrush 
called. “I like trimmin’ hats,” Anna answered, 
“and nobody would know nothin’.” 

“Nobody!” 

Again there was silence, then the girl turned on 
her sharply. “How do I know you ain’t foolin’?” 
she demanded. “You wouldn’t be the first. How 


176 


THE SHINING ROAD 


do I know you got the money ?” She laughed 
shrilly, and it was not a pleasant thing to hear. “I 
reckon I’d like to see those greenbacks before I give 
up Stephen. He’d get me loose from the Wagners, 
anyway.” 

From the pocket of her alpaca skirt Hephzibah 
drew out five bills and smoothed them gently on 
her knee. “They’re for ten dollars each,” she said. 
“I was goin’ to use them to go back home with. I 
ain’t been home since—since I was young like you.” 
With a little awkward gesture she held them out 
to Anna. “I want you to have them, please.” 

For a moment the girl hesitated, and her eyes lost 
their hardness. “You—you must think a lot of 
him,” she said finally. 

Hephzibah met her look. “I do. I don’t want 
him or you to do anythin’ rashly. You both got 
it in you to take it too hard. It ain’t safe for some 
people to suffer, and I ’low you’ve had just about 
your share.” 

The chipmunk, more curious than frightened, 
blinked at them drolly from the edge of the wood 
pile. A long time the girl’s eyes watched him. 
Slowly she smiled at Hephzibah. “He’s waitin’ for 
my decision.” Then she looked back at the chip- 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 177 


munk. “Well, I won’t keep you standin’ any longer, 
sir. I’m goin’.” 

That afternoon, too, Hephzibah posted a letter at 
the station in Green Mountain. The handwriting 
on the envelope was hers, old-fashioned and tricked 
out with delicate flourishes, but the note inside was 
a hurried scrawl, misspelled and boyish. It was 
the unfinished letter that had lain for three months 
under the drawn-work handkerchief in Hephzibah’s 
top bureau drawer. 

On Saturday Stephen drove into the village. His 
ostensible destination was the post office, but he 
wanted to meet Smart by chance and talk to him. 
The Stump place adjoined Zeke’s on the west and, 
with the help of one hired man, Stephen could man¬ 
age the two as easily as one. Besides, he intended 
to marry Anna as soon as the harvest was in. 

At the door of the post office stood the usual 
group of Saturday idlers. Their gossip stopped as 
Stephen approached and pushed by them. He 
noticed only that Smart was not of the group. Had 
he not been preoccupied, he might have observed 
the self-conscious silence and their loutish curiosity. 

Three farmers stood ahead of him at the delivery 
window, and Stephen resentfully fell into line. 


12 


178 


THE SHINING ROAD 


When his turn at last came the postmaster pushed 
two letters toward him, and he slipped them hastily 
into his pocket. Suddenly he felt a heavy hand on 
his shoulder, and he wheeled to confront old 
Wagner. 

“Where’s Anna?” The group in the doorway 
drew nearer, eager for the sordid revelations of 
tragedy. 

Stephen drew away stiffly from the calloused hand. 
“At home, I suppose.” 

“You suppose,” the man jeered. His face was 
coarse with insinuation. “She went last night on 
the flier. Trim Hiatt sold her a ticket to Des 
Moines. You suppose she found the money for 
that ticket on a mulberry bush!” 

The ring of spectators smirked their apprecia¬ 
tion. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” 
Stephen answered. He was dumbfounded at the 
news of Anna’s departure and disgusted at the 
vulgarity of this spectacle. Then the sort of anger 
that brings with it a physical hurt gripped him. “Get 
out of my way,” he shouted to the group of loungers. 
Instinctively they fell back from the door. Sud¬ 
denly he turned toward Wagner. “Why she didn’t 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 179 


run away from that reeking pigpen of yours and 
your shrew of a wife years ago I don’t know. 
You’re not fit to lace her shoes, I tell you.” His 
eyes glowed with the light of a great belief. “None 
of you. If she’s gone, it’s because you didn’t de¬ 
serve her. She was the only thing real or beautiful 
around here. She was like pearls before swine. No 
wonder she’s gone. She’s got courage. Who are 
you smug-faced louts to smirk and to whisper? 
You’re cowards,” he yelled, “every one of you. 
Cowards!” Then he flung himself out of the door 
and jumped into the buggy. Because he had no 
place else to go he went home. 

It had been a ridiculous speech, and he knew it. 
Anna was neither as good nor as beautiful as he 
had described her. His love for her had been a 
composite thing, bom of loneliness and youth. Into 
his solitude she had brought her presence, and he 
had been grateful to her, as a man is grateful for 
warmth and spring and affection. 

He had justified her to himself in that defense at 
the post office more than to the group of loungers. 
By his proposal of marriage to her he had linked 
his life with hers. He had to believe in her. And 
now he must follow her and bring her home. The 


i 8 o 


THE SHINING ROAD 


train for Des Moines passed by in three hours. He 
would pack first and persuade one of the Terschak 
boys to come over to help with the work while he 
was gone. At the back steps he tossed the reins 
over the pump handle and went up to his room. 

Then, for the first time, the difficulties of the 
undertaking overwhelmed him. He was needed on 
the farm for the harvest, and the little money he 
had brought home in the spring was gone now. Of 
course he could borrow from Hephzibah. She had 
the fifty dollars he had returned to her, the fifty 
dollars she had hoarded away against her visit back 
home. To ask her for that money would be the 
most humiliating experience of his life, but he 
would have to endure it. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed drearily, 
his head in his hands. What a ridiculous, unac¬ 
countable thing life was! Nothing had worked out 
as he had intended, and the future held for him 
only drudgery and unhappiness. Unhappiness of 
his own making. 

Then he heard footsteps on the unpainted steps 
to his room, and Hephzibah stood in the doorway. 
“Come in,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.” 

She sat down on the bed beside him, and her eyes 


FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 181 


saw the wretchedness in every line of his figure. 
“Anna’s gone.” 

Startled he looked up at her. “You knew!” 

She nodded. “She said she was goin’ to write 
you.” 

He felt in his pocket for the letters he had brought 
back from the village. One was in pencil, and it 
bore the postmark of Green Mountain. Dumbly he 
opened it and read. 

“Dear Steve—Don’t look for me, because I don’t 
want you should find me. It’s much better this way. 
We never was suited—really. Now I’m free and 
you’re free, and we both got a chance at happiness. 
Don’t try to spoil it. 

“I wish I could write, but I can’t. There’s a lot 
of things I would like to tell you only I ain’t got no 
knack at speech. So I’ll only say good-by and good 
luck. 

“Anna. 

“P. S. If Hephzibah Preston don’t get no trip 
east this year you’ll know it was because she done 
somethin’ else with her money. She’s a kind woman, 
Stephen, the first I ever knew, I guess. 

“A.” 


THE SHINING ROAD 


182 

For a long time they sat there in silence. The 
sun filled the room with the gold yellow softness of 
late afternoon, and through the open window, where 
a cheese cloth curtain billowed, they could see the 
gold yellow stretch of stubble and of harvested 
wheat field. 

“What’s in the other letter?” Hephzibah asked 
at last. 

He read it once and gave it to her. Slowly she 
studied out the words. “Nice what she says about 
her father wantin’ you back this winter, ain’t it? 
It’s a friendly letter and real entertainin’.” She 
wished he would say something! Did he suspect 
her? Was he angry with her? Had she been mad 
to act so rashly? “Stephen-” 

Slowly he smoothed out the rough pencilled letter 
with the Green Mountain post-mark and folded it 
into the envelope. “You liked her, didn’t you?” he 
asked at last. 

“I ’low she sort of disarmed me. Being from 
New England, I don’t suppose I approved of her 
being so handsome and so takin’.” She stopped 
suddenly, realizing how blundering and treacherous 
words can become. “Life ain’t been easy for her. 



FOR WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT 183 


Maybe it never will be. But she’s got a chance 
now, for the first time.” 

“I suppose so-” 

The gold light had gone from the room now and 
across the meadows stretched thin streamers of mist 
and the air held the smell of September. 

“Stevie—” She touched his arm timidly. He 
seemed so young, to her, and defenseless, for all his 
fine learning. “Stevie, you didn’t love her—really?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all so mixed up 
now.” 

Again there was silence. 

“I ’low you’ll be goin’ back to the city as soon as 
the harvest is in,” she said. “Zeke’ll be fit enough 
by that time.” 

The city! 

Suddenly his dream returned to him, his dream 
to be a lawyer, a judge perhaps, a great man. It 
was distant and nebulous and full of half-visioned 
achievements. It was only a wish, maybe—but he 
believed it. Wonderful is the recuperative power 
of youth. In an instant the drudgery and despair 
of the summer were gone. He was free, too, even 
as Anna was. And life was delightful and beautiful 
and unexplored. 



184 


THE SHINING ROAD 


He knew, too, who had returned his dream to 
him and he felt at once embarrassed and impotent 
and very humble. There was nothing some way 
he could say to her. Nothing. 

“Stevie/’ she said at last, “you ain’t mad at me, 
are you?” 

“Mad,” he repeated. The surprise in his face 
was sufficient. “Gosh, Aunt Hephzibah, I don’t see 
sometimes how you can go on believing in me and 
sacrificing for me and forgiving me. I’m not worth 
it.” He was saying it badly, like a schoolboy. 
“You’re a darn poor picker, Aunt Hephzibah, but 
you’re darn near being a saint.” 

“Stevie—” Timidly she stretched out her hand 
toward him and he folded it awkwardly in both of 
his. 

Perhaps no one is ever thanked adequately, but 
to Plephzibah Preston this seemed sufficient. Per¬ 
haps, indeed, only the knowledge that Stephen was 
happy would have repaid her—for women are like 
that. 


CHAPTER VI 

BEING A NOBODY 

T HE gray murk of an early November twilight 
deepened in the library of Judge Wilmot Tru¬ 
man's law office. All the men had gone for the day 
except one, very young, gray-eyed and shabbily 
dressed and incredibly earnest. Judge Truman’s 
offices always wore an air of twilight. A delicate 
veil of soft coal soot covered the windows and tem¬ 
pered even the sun of midday. 

Against the walls stood the judge’s book cases, 
no one of which resembled its fellow. They had 
been grudgingly added to from time to time, when¬ 
ever the pile of books in the corners became uncom¬ 
fortably pretentious. Facing the windows stood a 
black onyx fireplace, beautiful and dignified, and 
over it, tipped slightly askew, hung a steel cut of 
Alexander Hamilton with a background of marble 
pillar and lugubrious stage curtain. For fifteen 
185 


i86 


THE SHINING ROAD 


years now the picture had gone unstraightened and 
had endured only the indifferent flickings of a 
feather duster in the hands of a negro janitor. 

In spite of the shiftlessness of his office, Judge 
Truman was the most able lawyer in the county, 
possibly in the State, and the most meager of posi¬ 
tions in his firm was not without significance. Even 
the dingy rooms, unmodern and drafty, possessed a 
curious charm. In the Middle West one finds sel¬ 
dom a place that has acquired a sense of distinction 
because men have worked well within it. Two 
governors and a Supreme Court justice had read 
their Blackstone, and scribbled and dreamed, be¬ 
neath the same complaining gas lamp where now 
scribbled Stephen Douglas. Stephen Douglas had 
been “placed out” on Zeke Preston's farm. But the 
ambitions of youth are not bounded by logic or 
probability. They are as real as the wish behind 
them—and Stephen Douglas was a valiant wisher. 

Since he had come to the city, life had been a 
perplexing contradiction. There is no middle 
ground for some people, and Stephen was either 
well on the road toward becoming a Supreme Court 
justice—or he was prepared to receive his dismissal 
as assistant clerk. To-night he believed the name of 


BEING A NOBODY 187 

Douglas would be “writ in water”—if, indeed, it 
would be writ at all. 

Suddenly the door to the judge’s private sanctum 
screeched open, and Lily Sedelmeyer stood in the 
doorway. She looked at the young man an instant 
with a half-amused annoyance, and her eyes nar¬ 
rowed : “I take it your heart’s in your work-” 

The blush that crimsoned the boy’s cheeks deep¬ 
ened with exasperation because he knew he was 
blushing. “Sorry,” he said. “Did you want to 
shut up the shop ?” 

She came a couple of steps nearer and looked at 
the litter of papers. “Traction case?” 

He nodded. 

Lily Sedelmeyer shrugged her shoulders. “Lord,” 
she snapped, “you didn’t think you could settle that 
to-night, did you? It’s been hanging around here 
ever since I came—fifteen years ago.” This time 
it was she who blushed, and a flush of anger crept 
painfully from her high, rouged cheek bones down 
her too thin neck where the cords had already begun 
to show. She had been a fool to give away her age 
like that! 

Stephen looked up at her and grinned. “Seems 
that something that happened back in ’87, Selby 



188 


THE SHINING ROAD 


County versus the Mississippi Valley Traction Com¬ 
pany is awfully important and I’ve been detailed to 
look it up.” He pointed to the pile of books on the 
floor beside him. “You’d think any dodo could 
find the thing, it’s only a court decision, but I 
can’t.” Back of the lightness of his words was an 
undeniable note of pleading. He was, of course, 
ridiculously young and earnest—and good look¬ 
ing. 

Lily Sedelmeyer hesitated a moment. It was late 
and she was tired and she had a date. But life, 
someway, is seldom logical. “Let’s have a look,” 
she said at last, “Angel Baby.” 

Lily Sedelmeyer had worked fifteen years for Wil- 
mot Truman. When she first arrived she was seven¬ 
teen, fresh from a school of stenography, and she 
was long-legged and hard-eyed and bitter. At 
twenty-five she had looked distinctly “hard-boiled,” 
and there had already been “gossip about her.” But 
she was smart. 

“Lily’s worth fifteen Phi Beta Kappas,” the judge 
had explained once, “and she’s almost as cheap.” 
Whenever any insinuating remark reached his ears 
he raised her salary and reiterated his faith in her 
ability. “What was it Lincoln said about Grant’s 


BEING A NOBODY 189 

liquor ?” he once demanded. And the conversation 
was dropped. 

Accordingly, Lily’s position remained as un¬ 
challenged as her efficiency. She possessed the in¬ 
tense, clear-headed, narrow ability that develops in 
persons upon whom circumstances have forced an 
early maturity. At nineteen Lily was completely 
supporting her brother, little Bennie Sedelmeyer, 
darning his stockings and seeing he got off to school 
on time. 

When Lily was twenty-four Bennie died of scarlet 
fever. The “Sedelmeyer kids” were orphans and 
boarded around, so the funeral was held in the 
front room of Mrs. Wilson’s Select Lodging House. 
Judge Truman had gone and he took with him his 
seventeen-year-old daughter, Constance, upon whom, 
since his wife’s death, he had allowed himself to de¬ 
pend. If he had thought twice, he would have decided 
to shield Constance from the depression this tragedy 
would surely cause a sensitive and young person. 
But he didn’t think. He was sorry for Lily and 
something had to be done about it, something a little 
more human than the paying of the undertaker’s fee. 

Constance Truman, sitting on the horse hair sofa 
in Mrs. Wilson’s front room, beneath an enlarged 


190 


THE SHINING ROAD 


photograph of Mr. Wilson in a stupendous gilt 
frame, added the last touch of bitterness to Lily's 
despair. The dress Constance wore was dark blue 
and simply made but it seemed, even to the judge, 
an unchallenged symbol of the delicate wellbeing her 
lot in life assured her. Indeed, the contrast between 
the two girls had been difficult for all of them. 
Lily behaved with a sort of valiant defiance, destined 
to paralyze all the gentleness, all the potential help¬ 
fulness in the other girl. Even Judge Truman 
could see that it was not easy to pacify a tigress, 
and he decided he had done wrong to bring Con¬ 
stance—even to have come himself. 

Before the procession was to start for the ceme¬ 
tery the judge’s daughter summoned all her courage 
and went over to Lily. “Father wants you to come 
to our house afterward and stay for dinner.” She 
hesitated a second, amazed at her own temerity. 
“It won’t be so lonesome as here, perhaps.” 

For an instant the two girls faced each other. 
Lily Sedelmeyer knew the judge’s daughter wanted 
only to be kind, and, yet, in one of those unaccount¬ 
able flashes of resentment, she suddenly held Con¬ 
stance Truman responsible for Bennie’s death, for 
the bruising emptiness of the future. It was all 


BEING A NOBODY 


191 

illogical and untrue but in that instant Lily hated as 
she had never hated in the course of a none too 
pacific existence. 

“No.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I can’t. 
I don’t want to. Go away.” 

It was final. 

Constance Truman had not deserved the rebuff, 
and yet, someway, she could appreciate Lily’s atti¬ 
tude. “I’m sorry. I hoped there was something 
we could do, father and I.” Into Lily’s face there 
had come no look of softening. “I—I suppose 
there are some things one just has to go through 
with alone.” She felt pitifully inadequate and 
chagrined. It is not easy, perhaps, for one who 
knows bitterness only through imagination to offer 
a very spontaneous brand of comfort. 

Concerning Lily, all that Stephen Douglas felt 
sure of was that she knew more law than he did, 
that she was too thin, but pretty, and that she 
wasn’t at all like Constance Truman. He had often 
watched her help the other men in the office, and 
he had wondered, in a vague way, why she seemed 
content only to help. Maybe women just weren’t 
made ambitious. As he watched her now he felt 
that same sense of indolent detachment he had 


192 


THE SHINING ROAD 


known in school when teacher worked out the hard 
problem. “Here,” she said, “Blue Eyes. Here’s 
your case.” Then she looked up at him across the 
volumes. “But they’re not blue; they’re green.” 

“They’re gray,” he retorted, and he blushed 
again. “Anyway, my aunt says so.” 

“Your aunt!” Lily Sedelmeyer looked at him 
quizzically. “You’re funny.” She liked the shape 
of his head and the way his hair curled in the 
nape of his neck and the line of his chin. “Well, 
I reckon I better shove off.” She started to pull 
on the slightly soiled cotton gloves that looked like 
chamois. “There’s a fellah waiting to buy me a 
sandwich.” 

A curious feeling of left-aloneness swept through 
Stephen. “Don’t go,” he said, and then he realized 
how silly it sounded. “I mean, I thank you. I’ll 
bet I’d have hunted all night for that darn thing. 
Someway, this evening, I reckon I’ll never be 
famous.” 

It was a confession she knew he wanted contra¬ 
dicted, and they both laughed. “Too bad about 
you,” she retorted, “teacher’s pet.” 

“What do you mean, teacher’s pet?” His aston¬ 
ishment was genuine. 


BEING A NOBODY 


193 


“Mean?” she taunted. “Why, being put on the 
traction case, and having a desk in the only room 
with a decent light—and being asked out to the 
judge’s for dinner. I suppose you hadn’t noticed 
any of those things, had you?” 

He shook his head doubtfully. “Well, not as 
being especially significant. Just—luck.” 

“Luck!” she repeated, and there was something 
in her voice that was not pleasant to hear. She 
was standing now. “Well, good night, sweetheart. 
Make me attorney-general when you’re president.” 

“Miss Sedelmeyer-” 

She turned abruptly in the doorway. “Well ?” 

“Are you really going somewhere special for 
supper? Because, I mean”—he blushed again, but 
his very awkwardness had charm—“I’m fed up on 
eating around here alone.” 

“Oh, I see.” She made him a mock courtesy. 
“You’re asking for the pleasure of my company td 
dinner, are you?” 

His smile was disarming. “Yes I am. My tech¬ 
nique’s thin—and so’s my purse, but I reckon I 
could buy you a ‘sandwich.’ ” 

Lily Sedelmeyer wavered. “I’ve got a date.” 
Her “date” was neither very young nor very noble, 


13 



194 


THE SHINING ROAD 


but the sandwich would be a good one. Besides, 
Lily seldom planned to yield to sentiment. “To¬ 
morrow/’ she said, “if you’re still of the same 
opinion.” 

A suspicion that perhaps he wouldn’t be crossed 
Stephen’s mind, but he rallied gallantly. “To¬ 
morrow then. Thank you.” 

“Good night”—from the doorway she watched 
him a moment with slow eyes—“Stephen,” she 
drawled. 

On her way down the dirty wooden stairs, long 
ago worn into shallow hollows, she wished suddenly 
she hadn’t tried to flirt with him—that, indeed, 
she hadn’t stayed to help him. It wouldn’t pay to 
grow to care for a boy like him. One could easily 
care too much. 

Stephen, too, had marvelled at the judge’s kind¬ 
ness. By a lucky fluke he had secured a job in the 
Truman office as soon as he left the university, 
and, as the office phrased it, the big man had “taken 
a shine” to him. Stephen was intelligent and am¬ 
bitious and deserving, but so were a half dozen 
other young men who had coveted the position. 
Fortune had denied Stephen much, perhaps, money 
and security and a background of gentle rearing. 


BEING A NOBODY 


195 


But fortune had given him something especial. It 
had made him the kind of person the world doesn’t 
mind seeing get on. Quite without conscious motive, 
or even recognition of it, people had pushed the 
materials of success into his way. 

They hadn’t been very powerful people, most of 
them, Hephzibah, old Judge Squires, Si Smart, 
Jacob Sears—and Anna—but they had given him 
that something which is called experience, experience 
shorn of bitterness, clean of scars. He was old for 
his years—and he was appealingly young. The 
game of living was still very much worth the candle, 
and somewhere, some time, before the game finished, 
he would find the girl—who looked amazingly like 
the judge’s daughter. 

Perhaps, indeed, it had been Stephen’s youth that 
had captured Lily Sedelmeyer. As she dressed for 
the office next morning she looked longer at her face 
than was necessary to administer the swift make-up 
that transformed the pallor of her skin into a per¬ 
haps not too delicate rosiness. If Lily had ever had 
sleep enough, or a sense of security, or affection, 
she might have been pretty. As it was, she pos¬ 
sessed a sort of valiant good looks. Lily Sedel- 
meyer’s defiance, and her liberal cosmetics, could 


196 


THE SHINING ROAD 


triumph over a great deal nature seemed to have 
omitted. This morning, though, she stared hard 
at the slate-colored eyes that stared back at her. 

“Gosh,” she murmured finally, and she put on 
the new georgette that was destined only to be 
worn for “dates.” On her way to the office, too, 
she bought three pink rosebuds. They were 
ridiculously expensive, and they would fade before 
evening, but Lily was willing to gamble on the value 
of even the fleeting esthetic touch. She put them 
at once in a glass of water on her desk, and in the 
afternoon she stealthily turned off the radiator in 
the judge’s office. 

Soon that eminent barrister sneezed and shiv¬ 
ered. “Something wrong with the steam,” he said 
finally, and at four o’clock he decided to call it a 
day. 

At six Lily Sedelmeyer wiped the stems of the 
roses on her dust cloth, pinned them to her waist, re¬ 
gardless of the holes the pins made in her new georg¬ 
ette, and made up all over again, slowly and care¬ 
fully. No one was left but herself now and Stephen, 
and Lily’s methods were direct. She had waited 
long enough for her moment of appreciation. 

As she pushed open the door to the library he 


BEING A NOBODY 


197 


looked up startled, then he grinned at her. “Hello,” 
he said. “Got a flower garden at your house?” 

“From my aunt’s conservatory,” she retorted. 
“She wants me to come and live with her and take 
lessons on the harp. But I’d rather be independent.” 
She crossed the room and jumped impudently to a 
seat on the library table. “Don’t you think a girl 
grows in character who has contact with reality, 
Mr. Douglas?” Then she examined the two well- 
shod feet thrust out before her. “Hungry ?” 

“I’ve scarcely eaten a thing for twenty-seven 
years.” 

She slid lightly to the floor and confronted him. 
“The party’s on, then?” 

“Of course. Didn’t you accept yesterday?” 

They had dinner at an Italian restaurant where 
the linen was spotted and where, in the center of 
each table, stood a dusty vase filled with dusty pink 
and red paper carnations. Luigi Gambetto liked a 
touch of color about him, as the raging eruption of 
Vesuvius and the very blue Blue Grotto bore witness. 
The food was naturalized Italian and good, and 
one could get a satisfying quantity for sixty cents. 

All through dinner Lily Sedelmeyer felt a quite 
unwarranted and delightful happiness. She was 


198 


THE SHINING ROAD 


at peace suddenly with the world, with herself, and 
her voice became less shrill and she didn’t laugh 
much. She was neither aggressive nor shy. For 
the first time in a none too guarded existence she 
was quietly and simply herself with a man. 

For a long time they talked about the office, and 
Lily explained to him the scenario of the Traction 
Case, how it had dragged through a dozen law 
courts, making and despoiling mayors and judges 
and bankers in its course. It was tied up with the 
whole game of local politics, and the great man who 
pulled the strings was one Michael Higgins of 
Chicago, a mythological character, whose emis¬ 
sary was the judge. 

“Ever seen him?” Stephen demanded. 

Lily shook her head. “No. The judge always 
meets him in Chicago. This thing’s too small for 
him to mess up in personal. He’s got a few rail¬ 
roads and steamship lines to run besides.” 

For the first time Stephen visualized the dimen¬ 
sions of high finance, and the vision caught his im¬ 
agination. “I suppose there are a hundred or so 
gifted young men like me ruining their Saturday 
afternoons for that bird, and he never heard of 
one of us.” 


BEING A NOBODY 


199 


‘‘You’re too modest, Mr. Douglas,” Lily mocked. 

Stephen grinned. “Anyway, I’d like to see him.” 
And for a moment he forgot Mr. Gambetto’s res¬ 
taurant and the second order of spaghetti and the 
woman across from him whose eyes never left his 
face. 

“Cheer up,” she said, “and tell me the story of 
your life.” Lily was not untutored in the ways of 
beguiling a man. “Tell me everything. I’m 
interested.” 

Stephen looked at her a moment questioningly. 

“Go on,” she nodded. “I mean it.” 

He was embarrassed and yet pleased. “It won’t 
leave you breathless,” he said finally, “but you 
brought it on yourself.” Then he told her about Zeke 
and Hephzibah and the farm and Green Mountain, 
about Si Smart and Judge Squires and Jacob Sears. 
When he talked about Hephzibah he some way 
found it difficult to express himself. Ever since 
that first day when she had taken him away from the 
Orphan’s Home in Des Moines she had been the 
one unquestioned thing in his existence and he had 
accepted her devotion, as a plant accepts sunlight— 
too completely even for gratitude. 

But Lily Sedelmeyer understood, and she felt in 


2 00 


THE SHINING ROAD 


her throat a curious ache. Perhaps there is some¬ 
thing of Hephzibah Preston in every woman. Then 
she revolted. “This sacrifice stuff’s all wrong,” she 
contended. “No wonder women never get on. 
They’re forever helping some man. I’m against it, 
credite mihi, as they say in Latin.” 

Stephen laughed at her protest. “Comes well 
from you—that,” he said. “You haven’t taken any 
trouble bothering for me, now, have you?” 

Lily looked away from him suddenly. “That’s 
different.” 

For an instant she was tempted to be frank with 
him, to tell him she cared for him, that Judge Tru¬ 
man liked him—and Constance. For a moment too 
the old enmity flared up inside her, and she hated 
Constance, hated her for being young and well born. 
Besides she feared Constance Truman as a potential 
rival. Well, the game wasn’t over yet. She had a 
lot of cards she could play Constance Truman didn’t 
dare to. Being a nobody had its advantages. 

Suddenly the door of the restaurant was opened, 
and the shrill, metallic notes from Joe’s Jazz 
Orchestra, which rendered determined if not al¬ 
together harmonious music at the Nelson Dancing 
Academy, blared into the room. The rendition was 


BEING A NOBODY 


201 


as bad as possible, even for an orchestra with talent 
for the worst, but the piece was a waltz, an old 
one, the sort around which memories are built—and 
forgotten. For an instant the two looked at each 
other questioningly, then Lily decided. 

“Let’s,” she said. 

The counterpart of Nelson’s Academy is to be 
found in every town and city from New York to 
Seattle. It is neither vicious nor refined. From 
coast to coast it exists, gaudy, shabby, commercial, 
a retreat for the lonely and resourceless, an out¬ 
standing testimonial to all that is unbeautiful and 
dreary and yearning in the great American middle 
class. 

Stephen bought fifty cents worth of tickets and 
handed two to the bull-necked gentleman at the en¬ 
trance to the dance floor. This was a reckless 
extravagance, for the dance was almost over, but 
Stephen Douglas was by instinct no Scotchman. 

Lily was a good though somewhat exaggerated 
dancer. The most strenuous and intricate steps 
presented no terrors to her. She conquered them 
intellectually, as a chess player solves a problem, 
and she put them into vigorous practice. In a vague 
way Stephen realized they were making themselves 


202 


THE SHINING ROAD 


conspicuous, but, after all, what difference did it 
make? They were as much class as any other 
couple. 

At the end of the dance they sat in the corner at 
a table, traced with a sticky pattern of rings from 
lemonade glasses. Other couples, less opulent, 
wandered up and down the dingy corridor. To sit 
one must order refreshments. It was a rule of 
the house. 

Suddenly over the top of her glass, Lily saw 
Stephen’s face change expression, and her eyes 
followed his to the doorway. It was the beginning 
of a new dance, and the bull-necked gentleman had 
risen again from his periodic stupor against the wall 
into Prussian majesty. In the crowd that surged 
around him had appeared a new element. They 
were more simply and better dressed than the others, 
and their manners partook of a sort of well-bred 
rowdyism. Obviously they were not of the desolate 
and resourceless who comprised the clientele of 
Mr. Nelson’s business, and instinctively every old 
patron resented their easy, confident, insulting civil¬ 
ity. It was the Country Club “gang” on a spree, for, 
from New York to Seattle, the old dictum obtains 
that “you can go anywhere with your own crowd.” 


BEING A NOBODY 


203 


“The bums!” Lily spoke with feeling. “Think 
they’re stepping out. They’ll talk about this for 
a week as though they’d done something really low¬ 
brow and devilish.” 

Stephen didn’t answer. It was no use trying to 
make out a case for them against Lily. Illogical 
and snobbish as he knew it to be, he wished sud¬ 
denly he hadn’t come there—and with her. 

At once from the group at the entrance a couple 
separated itself. It was Constance Truman and 
David Sargent. David Sargent had just returned 
from Paris, where he had for three years studied at 
the Beaux Arts. He was an architect of promise— 
and of some attainments. 

“Went to grade school with him,” Lily threw out. 
It wasn’t necessary to indicate about whom she was 
speaking. “He used to copy my problems in 
arithmetic.” 

Stephen twisted his chair, ever so adroitly, so that 
he no longer faced the dancers and became absorbed 
in the sugar-coated bottom of his lemonade glass. 
He was curiously ashamed of his action, and he 
hoped Lily hadn’t noticed—but more than all he 
didn’t want to meet Constance Truman. 

Suddenly Lily sat up very straight, and her body 


204 


THE SHINING ROAD 


began to bend and twitch in response to the call of 
the jazz. “Come on,” she said, “it's a fox!” 

Stephen avoided meeting her eyes. “Awful mob 
out there,” he ventured. “Think it’s safe to lead 
a farmer like me into such traffic?” 

“I’ll take a chance,” she challenged. She was 
standing now, waiting for him. 

Obediently he rose and followed her onto the 
floor. It seemed to him every person there must be 
watching them, and never had Lily thrown herself 
with such abandon of motion into a dance. She 
was deliberately showing off. It was a ridiculous 
act of defiance toward a society that did not even 
know she existed, a brave gesture in the face of a 
great indifference. 

At the end of the dance the little group of ex¬ 
plorers gathered, with the rowdyism permitted only 
the well-bred, in the refreshment parlor, and to 
reach their old table Lily and Stephen had to pass 
by. Dumbly Stephen started to follow his partner, 
and he knew he was not the only one who was 
watching her with curiosity and amazement. 

As luck would have it, they encountered David 
Sargent, en route for the Prussian door-keeper and 
a new installment of dance tickets. Lily was in- 


BEING A NOBODY 


205 


toxicated with the drama of her defiance. She was 
a Jeanne d’Arc, her spear in the rest against all 
those privileged ones who had turned her world 
suddenly into a shabby thing, who made her appear 
ridiculous to the man she cared for, to herself. 
Suddenly Lily stopped and accosted the correct 
young gentleman before her. “Hello,” she said. 
“Giving the lower classes the once over, are you?” 

It was evident from his expression David Sargent 
did not recognize in this hard-eyed, angry woman 
the erstwhile solver of his arithmetic problems. For 
an instant it seemed that he was going to retort. 
Then he reconsidered and passed them by with the 
most remote and frigid nod consistent with good 
breeding. It was a rebuff more stinging than a 
blow, and, although Stephen had never met David 
Sargent, he felt a curious and sudden partisanship 
with Lily. 

“Polite, talkative young man, ain’t he ?” In anger 
Lily lapsed back in the jargon of her native alley. 
“Wonder if Miss Truman ever noticed it?” 

The modulation of Lily’s voice was never low, 
and it seemed to Stephen now that every person there 
must have overheard. Somewhere, on the other 
side of that fantastic social barrier, Constance Tru- 


206 


THE SHINING ROAD 


man was listening, judging. Well, he didn’t care 
what she thought. 

“Come on, Lily,” he said, and he slipped his arm 
through hers. “More power to you—and this is a 
foxtrot.” 

For a second she hesitated, then he drew her to 
him. Lily had known passion and even admiration, 
but tenderness was a new sensation. “Stevie—” 
All her anger was burned out now. She was a child 
suddenly, hurt and tired and defeated. “Stevie,” she 
repeated, “I know the evening’s only a pup, but I’m 
dead tired. Would you mind if we pushed along?” 

“I’m with you.” He didn’t look at her. Some¬ 
way, he realized the kindest thing was to be casual. 
“It’s hotter than the devil here, anyway.” 

All the way home they chatted as though nothing 
had happened. At the door of Lily’s boarding 
house Stephen said good night. They shook hands 
slowly, and Lily felt, someway, it was more than a 
formality. It was a compact, the two of them 
against those others. After all, he too was up from 
nowhere. He had gotten further than she only 
because a woman, back on that farm in Green Moun¬ 
tain, had sacrificed for him. There had been no 
Hephzibah Preston to sacrifice for Lily. 


BEING A NOBODY 


207 


“How about next Thursday?” he offered. 

In the darkness she looked up at him. “Suits 
me,” she said. 

“Fine.” His voice was full of conviction. “Good 
night.” 

For many hours Lily Sedelmeyer made no battle 
to capture sleep. It was pleasant just to lie there 
and day-dream. There would be to-morrow and 
to-morrow and then Thursday. Thursday. Finally 
she slept. 

But to-morrow brought the unexpected. That 
juggler of municipal politics, that fashioner of 
careers of bankers and mayors and judges, the man 
for whom Stephen Douglas was ruining his Satur¬ 
day afternoons, was about to appear. Michael 
Higgins of Chicago, was coming to town. 

The entire office was rife with gossip and endless 
speculation, but it was Lily who divulged the judge’s 
plans for the dinner party. 

“Class,” she explained, “just the Carrington’s, the 
mayor and his wife, the Beacons, the judge, of 
course—and his daughter.” 

Stephen listened, absorbed, to the details. “Seems 
too bad he’s not going to meet me,” he concluded. 

Lily guessed the sincerity of the wish, even under 


208 


THE SHINING ROAD 


the jest, but she laughed at him. “Well, I’ll say 
he’s missing it!” 

In his mind’s eye Stephen visualized that evening. 
He remembered the beautiful Truman dining room, 
dignified and shadowy and satisfying. Constance 
Truman would look very lovely. She would sit at 
the head of her father’s table, and there would be 
coffee afterwards in the library. It was another 
world from Stephen’s, and yet he was not ill at 
ease there. He believed in his heart he belonged. 

To-morrow and to-morrow passed slowly for 
Lily. At last it was Thursday. She had been busy 
all day, and she was glad of the absorption. Each 
time she looked at the clock more minutes had slid 
by than she had believed possible. She was happy, 
happy all out of proportion to the cause. To-night 
she could not even envy Constance Truman. She 
was glad she was Lily Sedelmeyer and glad she was 
in love. 

Stephen had also been busy, and Lily had helped 
him. She had helped a half dozen other young men 
too, but this was different. She believed in him, 
someway, and she was glad she believed. 

At five-thirty it seemed as though the hands of 
the clock would never drag around that last half 


BEING A NOBODY 


209 


hour, and still it was pleasant just to anticipate, to 
sit motionless and watch the twilight deepen, watch 
the thousand lights of the city flash one by one into 
the darkness. It was good to be alive. 

At six o’clock the telephone on her desk tinkled 
faintly, and Lily lifted the receiver. 

“Mr. Douglas?” came the question. It was Con¬ 
stance Truman’s voice. 

On the extension in the outer office Stephen 
answered. The call was not for Lily. She was 
eavesdropping frankly, but without a qualm of con¬ 
science she continued to hold the receiver against 
her ear. 

It appeared Mr. Beacon was ill and unable to come 
to the dinner that evening. Would Stephen be good 
enough to accept at this last moment to fill the 
vacancy? It wouldn’t be at all formal. 

“Father wants you especially,” she added, “since 
you’re working on the Traction Case too.” 

Stephen hesitated. “I’d like to—a lot more than 
you can imagine, but—” there was an instant of 
silence—“I’ve got a date this evening.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” There was no doubting her 
sincerity. 

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Maybe I could shift 


14 


210 


THE SHINING ROAD 


it. Would it be too late if I let you know in ten 
minutes ?” 

The judge’s daughter was all graciousness. 

Then the receivers clicked back into place—all 
except Lily’s. For a long moment she sat there. So 
he wanted to get rid of her, to go away to “those 
others” who were fortunate and happy and well 
born. Then she jammed her own receiver into place. 
Well, she wouldn’t release him. He belonged to 
her, for he too had known poverty and bitterness and 
discouragement. It was she against Constance Tru¬ 
man—and Lily was going to win. 

Without knowing what she intended to do, she 
pushed open the door into Stephen’s office. He 
hadn’t come back yet. For a moment she stood 
undecided, then she crossed over to his desk. It 
was cluttered with papers and notebooks filled with 
jottings, misspelled and in the hasty, illiterate hand¬ 
writing of youth. Absently she sat down and her 
fingers brought order out of chaos. Then she 
stopped. Between the leaves of some memoranda 
was a letter, postmarked from Green Mountain. It 
was written on cheap, lined stationery and with a 
pen that had caught maliciously and left little sprays 
of ink on the paper. 


BEING A NOBODY 


2 II 


Lily had no inhibitions regarding another’s 
letters. 

“Dear Stevie,” she read. “That was a nice letter 
you wrote me. If you didn’t say those things, I 
wouldn’t never think I had done so much for you. 
Sacrificing for some people just comes natural some 
way. It’s a sort of sweetness to do it and nothing 
a body deserves credit for. But it made me proud 
and happy for you to write like you did. 

“Zeke bought a new harness yesterday at Jim 
Cassady’s auction with the present you sent us. I 
think it’s a good one. I made some cookies this 
morning, the sort you like with nuts in them. Zeke 
ate six for his supper. 

“I don’t want to say I miss you because I’m so 
glad you’re succeeding. That repays for everything 
and I make myself keep thinking all the time how 
smart you are and how I helped a little. If you 
wasn’t getting on I don’t think it would be easy to 
stand it without you—especially since the evenings 
are getting so long and still. 

“I’m proud of you and so is Zeke and everybody.” 

It was signed “Your devoted Aunt Hephzibah.” 

For a long time Lily sat there and stared at noth¬ 
ing. Then she folded the letter and slipped it again 


212 


THE SHINING ROAD 


into the notebook. It was dark outside, and Stephen 
would be back any moment. But she did not move. 

“Gosh,” she whispered finally, “gosh.” 

Then she picked up a paper and pencil. 

“Dear Stevie,” she wrote. “Would you mind 
if we went out to dinner some other time? I’ve 
a headache this evening. 


‘Lily.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 

W ITH the deftness of a skilled artisan Wilkes 
arranged the contents of the suit-case. He 
made no comments and he worked with the rapidity 
of a watch maker whose fingers select unconsciously 
the one particular tool that is needed. Curious and 
half embarrassed Stephen Douglas had witnessed 
the unpacking of his shabby luggage and the orderly 
disposal of his entire inventory of wearing apparel. 
For a second the valet hesitated, then he slipped the 
cheap celluloid brush into the top drawer of the chest 
beside the imitation leather collar box. 

“Shall I draw you a tub now, sir?” His manner 
was of the most disarming gravity. 

The young man in the rough tweed suit shook 
his head. 

“Very good, sir.” At the doorway Wilkes paused 
and his hand felt along the wainscoting. “This 
bell is for me, sir.” And the heavy door closed 
noiselessly. 


213 


214 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Then the young man smiled, “The damned sol¬ 
emnity of the gentleman,” he thought. “Still, I 
suppose he’s got to kid himself some way into think¬ 
ing he’s got a regular job.” 

It was the first time Stephen Douglas had ever 
encountered a valet, or visited at a country estate, 
the first time, indeed, he had ever beheld the wonders 
of material perfection that great wealth can achieve. 
Ever since he had stepped from the dusty Chicago 
local onto the stone flagging of the station platform 
at Willowbrook he had been transported into a 
world he had never believed existed. 

Until they reached the wrought iron gates that 
shut off the velvety acres of golf course and hunting 
preserve it was country that Stephen knew well. 
Sumac and dusty goldenrod bordered the roadway 
and, in the late August sunshine, the shadows of the 
squat wheat shocks stretched long and dark across 
the stubble. Within the iron gates the plains of 
Illinois had been metamorphosed into a Normandy 
park. At the end of an exquisitely moulded drive¬ 
way, bordered by flickering, swaying tipped poplars, 
rose the bleak gray walls of the chateau. Ten years 
before Michael Higgins, on a business trip to France, 
had admired it. Now it stood, fifty miles from 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 215 


Chicago, reproduced with uncompromising faithful¬ 
ness, unweathered and unassimilated, cold, preten¬ 
tious and unreal. 

After it was finished Michael Higgins knew some¬ 
thing was wrong, so they brought over a pear 
orchard from Normandy and the poplars and a 
vineyard. Twenty gardeners nursed these aliens 
into a listless semblance of permanency, but the 
rigors of each winter took their toll and every spring 
new orchards were shipped from France. Michael 
Higgins was not a man to be balked either by climate 
or geography. His estate at Willowbrook became 
as triumphant a testimonial to his genius as were his 
dams and his mines and his bridges, his railroads 
and his steamships. There was that about Michael 
Higgins that partook of a superhuman intelligence— 
and there was that about him that was pitiful and 
obtuse and defeated. 

As Stephen looked about the Louis XIV bedroom, 
he remembered suddenly a remark he had heard 
Judge Truman make. “Some men are either great 
successes or great failures. Michael Higgins is 
both suo tempore ” 

Of Michael Higgins’ success there could be no 
question. This offspring of a small town Presby- 


216 


THE SHINING ROAD 


terian minister had created for himself a position not 
without national significance. His gift was distinctly 
creative, and Michael Higgins forced his luck with 
all the credulity of a winning poker player—and 
with all the detached intellectual acumen of a chess 
expert. 

With no reason for his deductions, Stephen 
Douglas suspected that Michael Higgins’s failure, to 
which the Judge had referred, might be bound up 
with his personal relations. He knew he was mar¬ 
ried and had two sons, the oldest of which was only 
seven. He had heard Mrs. Higgins was beautiful 
and much younger than her husband, although 
Michael Higgins himself was only forty-three. To 
have accomplished all that he had at forty-three 
might lead one to suspect other things had been 
neglected. 

Stephen Douglas crossed the room and pressed 
the button Wilkes had indicated. 

Instantly the valet reappeared. 

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Higgins 
wants me to work ?” Stephen asked. 

Wilkes nodded. “In the library.” His face re¬ 
mained consistently without expression. “The books 
you brought are already laid out, sir.” 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 217 


Stephen’s amazement was patent. “Well,” he 
thought, “I’ve got to hand it to you. You could 
probably lay out a railroad—or a corpse.” What he 
said was: “Thank you. I wonder if you’d be good 
enough to show me the way. You come darn near 
needing a chart and compass to navigate this house.” 

Wilkes smiled, against his better judgment. “This 
way, sir.” 

The library was a room of exquisite proportions. 
French windows gave onto a terrace the grass of 
which was as incredibly soft and miniature as the 
sward of a putting green. Open bookcases, like 
somber toned tapestry, stretched to the ceiling and 
around the room ran a narrow balcony which one 
reached by a panelled staircase. On the north side 
a great hooded fireplace charmed the imagination 
with visions of hissing spruce logs and frantic, ad¬ 
venturing sparks. 

For an instant Stephen hesitated. It seemed that 
his whole body responded to the beauty around him. 
It was like the touch of velvet against the skin, 
reposeful, exquisite, almost tender. “I suppose,” he 
thought, “I’ll wake up.” 

“Do you find all you require?” came the voice 
of the valet. 


2l8 


THE SHINING ROAD 


“Lord/’ Stephen answered, “I don't want any 
more than paradise." 

“Yes, sir," the valet said, “very good, sir." 

True, on the table before him lay all the books 
he had worked with back in Judge Truman's law 
office. Just a year ago, timid, incredibly ambitious, 
the judge had assigned him to fag for the gentle¬ 
man in charge of the Traction Case. Now, Stephen 
Douglas was that gentleman. Judge Truman's firm 
represented the “interests"—and Michael Higgins 
was the interests. 

For a third time, that fall, the fight was to be 
carried to the Supreme Court and Michael Higgins 
lost patience. The case was like a mosquito, dis¬ 
turbing the idyll of his financial success and he 
decided to take a hand in it himself. Besides, his 
doctors had ordered him out of Chicago for a whole 
month and away from business. Without some 
sort of diversion he would rage with irritability. 
The Traction Case was diversion. Accordingly he 
summoned young Douglas to Willowbrook to pre¬ 
pare the brief under his own supervision. 

“Let’s win or get licked once for all,” he wrote 
the judge. “I like to see the end to things." 

Judge Truman showed Stephen the letter. “He's 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 219 


the most able man I know,” the judge admitted, 
“but I know something he doesn’t. Where the 
material you work with is human there is no such 
thing as finality.” Then he looked a long moment 
at Stephen. “You don’t know that either. You’re 
young yet.” 

Doubtless Judge Truman was speaking wisdom 
but it didn’t make sense to Stephen. 

Then the older man laughed. “Pack your books 
and run along. You’ll learn something—and may¬ 
be the great man will too.” 

For a long time that afternoon it seemed to Ste¬ 
phen he could never work again. Perhaps there is 
something devitalizing in too much beauty. At 
once there appeared a thousand things he would 
rather dream about—than the traction suit. Then 
he shook himself mentally and because he had behind 
him the discipline of one who had crossed lances 
with bleak necessity, he forced his mind to concen¬ 
trate. It was with a start that, two hours later, he 
lifted his eyes to the woman who stood looking 
down at him. 

With boyish awkwardness he shuffled to his feet. 
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t hear any one come in.” 

She smiled at him and lifted her shoulders with 


220 


THE SHINING ROAD 


a bewitching, half deprecating shyness. “That’s all 
right. I didn’t know any one was here either.” 
Then after a moment she added, “I’m Mrs. 
Higgins.” 

Stephen Douglas bowed his head in acknowledg¬ 
ment. If she had said, “I’m the Duchess of Parma 
stepped down from that canvas,” he would have 
believed her. He remembered suddenly a line from 
Browning. “She was the smallest lady alive.” She 
would not reach to his shoulder, he was sure, and 
there was something wistful about her and strangely 
childlike as she stood there before him, her face up¬ 
turned and her eyes searching his. 

Most women possess their moments of beauty, 
magic, unaccountable moments when dull flesh is 
metamorphosed into radiance. Many women have 
a fragmentary loveliness, alluring, perhaps, because 
of its very incompleteness, dependent on a mood, on 
the subtle coiling of the hair, on the strange right¬ 
ness of the throat line of a costume. Theirs is a 
beauty that is unpredictable, full of contradictions, 
significant because of its unexpectedness. 

The woman whose eyes held Stephen Douglas’ 
was not like these. She did not torment the imagina¬ 
tion with a galaxy of possibilities. The face that 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 221 


is almost beautiful makes a creative artist out of 
each beholder. The wife of Michael Higgins, how¬ 
ever, seemed to have achieved a perfection as flaw¬ 
less, as exquisite, as it was final. Another woman 
might have recognized the triumph of her groom¬ 
ing. Stephen Douglas only knew she was the love¬ 
liest woman he had ever seen, that she was perhaps 
the most exquisite person in the world. 

He never guessed how long they looked at each 
other. 

“Won’t you have tea with me?” she said finally. 
“Please don’t be busy.” 

Pie knew she must be older than he, but Stephen 
Douglas felt delightfully protective. To refuse her 
would be as cruel as to deny a child. “Where I 
come from we don’t go in for tea,” he said, and 
there was something disarming in his confession, 
“I mean—except for supper.” 

“No? But the time’s so long from luncheon 
until one dines—at eight,” she protested. 

“Eight?” His surprise was patent. Then he 
smiled again. “No wonder your husband owns the 
world. Anybody with a working day like that.” 

Mrs. Higgins looked at him a moment curiously. 
“Yes, my husband.” There was the briefest interval 


222 


THE SHINING ROAD 


of silence. “I don’t know much about his work. 
He isn’t here very much and I suppose I wouldn’t 
understand—even if he bothered to talk.” It was 
like the confession of an honest child that had failed 
to pass a grade in school. 

Stephen accepted the situation. “I’d love to have 
tea with you,” he said. “Don’t hold it against me 
if I do all the wrong things.” 

She smiled up at him suddenly. “You’re nice,” 
she said. 

Dinner at eight did not at all resemble tea. It 
was served in the long panelled dining room and 
by three solemnly efficient butlers. Attired in the 
much brushed blue serge Stephen Douglas had ap¬ 
proached his host. He was a little embarrassed, 
and scornful of himself for that same embarrass¬ 
ment. 

But Michael Higgins took no notice. He was 
interested in Stephen because Stephen was a bright 
young man who was working for him on a traction 
case, a traction case he wanted to see the end of. 
“You people down there seem to think the world’s 
going on forever.” He smiled as he spoke, but 
there was little humor in the hard lips. 

Stephen Douglas smiled back at him. “I know,” 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 223 


he said. “I sometimes wonder myself whether I'm 
going to devote the next sixty years of my life to 
securing a rotten franchise for you, sir.” He smiled 
again, a little shyly. “I’d sort of planned to be a 
judge, and maybe governor, as soon as I could get 
around to it.” 

All during the amazing pageantry of dinner 
Michael Higgins talked business. Twice he spoke 
to a servant, giving a quiet, definite order. Once 
he spoke to his wife. His manner toward her was 
neither rude nor insulting. It just seemed, some 
way, as though she didn’t exist. She was no more 
essential to the functioning of that dinner than the 
exquisite Titian canvas that hung on the wall be¬ 
hind her. 

To Stephen that talk was a revelation. Never 
had he met a mind as unswerving, as astute as this 
man’s. To watch him dispose of opposition, co¬ 
ordinate, systematize was like watching a chemist 
perform a delicate experiment. Stephen’s admira¬ 
tion was as outspoken as it was sincere. 

“Mr. Higgins,” he said, “I’ll vote for you when 
they nominate you president of this planet.” 

To Michael Higgins the uniqueness of his own 
mental processes was no source of conceit. For 


224 


THE SHINING ROAD 


an instant he seemed offended, but he smiled. “I’ve 
little interest in running for office, Mr. Douglas.” 

Then the finger bowls were removed and Mrs. 
Higgins rose. “Michael,” she said, “there’s too 
much sand on the tennis courts and I’ve heard the 
second cook’s going to leave.” 

“I know,” he said. “I’ve prepared against both 
contingencies.” His reply Stephen realized was not 
consciously rude, cruel as was the hurt it inflicted. 
Its erudite phrasing made him think of the spelling 
out of words before a child. Michael Higgins looked 
at his wife an instant as though he were trying to 
believe in her presence. Then his mind turned back 
to Stephen. “In my library I’ve a folio Shakespeare. 
Would you care to see it?” 

Like a servant who has received an order Stephen 
followed him. Somewhere, out into the moonlight 
on the terrace, he saw Mrs. Higgins disappear. She 
was a creature Merlin might have envisioned in the 
glades of an enchanted forest. Michael Higgins 
had married her for her beauty, and that was an 
end of it. Stephen suddenly wondered whether 
Michael Higgins had ever yearned for the sweetness 
of a woman’s comradeship, whether, indeed, he ever 
knew that he had lost it. 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 225 


In a week Stephen Douglas felt as though he 
might have lived there a long time. Tea at five 
and dinner at eight became reasonable institutions 
and he at length grew able to work in the Louis XIV 
library with the same concentration he had known 
back in Wilmot Truman’s dingy office. Sometimes, 
indeed, it appeared to him he had never worked so 
easily or with so secure a feeling of the rightness 
of his conclusions. But never before, perhaps, had 
he worked under the stimulus of so keen or so 
articulate a mind. 

Stephen, for his part, could only suspect how 
great a resource he had become to Michael Higgins. 
The more irksome and confusing the case became 
the better satisfied Stephen’s employer appeared to 
be. There was something almost unbalanced in the 
man’s relentless activity. It was an incongruous 
parallel, but Stephen remembered suddenly the story 
of an old lady who, on the morning of the burial 
of her only son, had pieced together the gay colored 
bits of a jigsaw puzzle representing a map of Aus¬ 
tralia—and had hastened home from the service to 
complete her stint. 

Ah the rest of Michael Higgins’ thwarted energy 
appeared diverted toward the management of his 


226 


THE SHINING ROAD 


estate. The doctors had forbidden him to go to 
Chicago but he spent two hours with his secretary 
who motored out each morning. His private tele¬ 
graph kept him in touch with stock markets and law 
makers. The rest of the time he played the role of 
potentate inside his own amazing little kingdom. He 
cut down woodlands and ordered new ones planted. 
He rebuilt roadways. He confiscated and raised up 
with a sort of childlike omnipotence. 

From the first evening of Stephen's arrival he 
had known that Mr. Higgins, and not his wife, 
commanded the establishment. To run a place like 
that, with even moderate efficiency, demanded a 
very real executive talent. But Michael Higgins had 
evidently never offered her even an apprenticeship. 

The two Higgins children Stephen had seen only 
once. They lived in a separate wing of the chateau 
under the command of nurses and tutors. They 
were long-legged boys, dressed always in immaculate 
English suits, shy and at the same time nervously 
aggressive. Each had a band of copper colored 
freckles across his nose, and the younger boy still 
explored with his tongue the delightful cavity left 
by the extraction of a front tooth. 

When Stephen chanced upon them they were 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 227 


being instructed in setting-up exercises by a rigorous 
Swedish gymnast who thumped his chest and 
expanded it portentiously, like the frog in the fairy 
tale. The children seemed bewildered and unhappy 
and regarded the earnest Norseman with a sort of 
frightened toleration. 

“Gosh,” Stephen whispered as he looked away 
from the spectacle. Suddenly he thought of some¬ 
thing, something he had not thought of for a long 
time, that he hoped he had forgotten, of a big stone 
building where the shutters rattled, where he had 
lain awake at night, his eyes strained shut against 
the darkness, his breath catching in silent, strangling 
sobs of loneliness. The Home for Orphans in 
Des Moines was a far cry from Michael Higgins’ 
great chateau—but loneliness is no respecter of 
palaces. 

“Gosh,” Stephen repeated, “and they’re nice kids, 
too.” 

Concerning Mrs. Higgins Stephen was perfectly 
sure what he thought but immensely unsure what 
he felt. There were no other guests at Willow- 
brook and he saw her daily in a manner the intimacy 
of which would have puzzled him enormously had 
it ever occurred to him at all. Stephen was perhaps 


/ 


228 


THE SHINING ROAD 


no more susceptible than most men but he was Celtic 
in his response to beauty. Obviously she liked him. 
She was pitifully lonely. He was sorry for her and 
pity is always dangerously—alluringly—akin to 
something else. 

To Stephen Cynthia Higgins seemed as exquisite 
as a Tanagra figure—and as ineffectual. A dozen 
times he had wanted to put his arms around her, 
to comfort her—to tell her she was an idiot. Then, 
with an accusing stab, the suspicion would come to 
him that he might be falling in love with her. 
Ridiculous, caddish. Besides, he cared for some one 
else. Constance Truman was not at all like Cynthia 
Higgins. Bound up in his feeling for Constance 
lay every decent ambition, every wish to do a piece 
of work a little better than the next man. She had 
been “the star that arose in his darkness” ever since 
that first day he had seen her. 

And now had come this other one. Was it pos¬ 
sible to be in love with two women at once? The 
idea appeared to him revolting. Besides, Cynthia 
Higgins was married. Well, anyway, no matter 
what his feeling toward her might be, he would 
behave in such a way that she would never suspect 
it. This was a compact. 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 229 


And then Michael Higgins took a day off to 
visit the northern corner of his estate where he was 
planning to change the course of a trout stream. 

Cynthia and Stephen dined alone in the great 
panelled banquet room that evening. Across the 
ponderous centerpiece of orchids she seemed very 
remote and her face, framed between the heavy 
silver candlesticks, appeared as delicate and minia¬ 
ture as a child’s. As though Stephen had been a 
visiting potentate the butler served and removed 
each course, silently, solemnly, oppressively. 

Once the butler disappeared an instant. Stephen 
grinned at the tiny face so far away from him. 
“Can’t think of a darn thing to say when that bird’s 
here,” he confided. 

After dinner Stephen followed her out into the 
moonlight. Below the terrace stretched an Italian 
garden, as unreal as a stage set, where black shadows 
intermingled with bleak sudden splotches of moon¬ 
light. Over head high clouds raced toward a small 
silver moon, captured it—and raced on again, re¬ 
gardless of their conquest. For a long moment they 
both stood there. The wind trailed a strand of 
chiffon from her scarf across Stephen’s face. She 
laughed softly and put out her hand to recapture 


230 


THE SHINING ROAD 


it. Then suddenly he caught her hand, held it for 
a second in both of his and released it again. 

“I’m going home Thursday,” he said. 

“Stephen!” It was the first time she had called 
him by his first name. 

Again there was silence between them. Then 
Cynthia Higgins sat down on the top step of the 
terrace. 

“Are you cold?” 

She shook her head. 

It seemed a long time that they sat there. On 
the path before them the wind caught up a scatter¬ 
ing of yellow beech leaves and twisted them into a 
miniature tornado. “I shall miss you,” she said 
finally. “I’ve been terribly lonesome.” 

“I know.” 

She lifted her face toward the moon. “Look,” 
she said. “That’s like me up there.” She stopped, 
embarrassed and suddenly timid. 

“Go on.” 

“It’s silly, maybe, but I’m like the moon. Michael 
saw me and wanted me, like those clouds. And 
then he sailed on way ahead and left me, waiting.” 
She turned to him shyly. “Is that silly?” 

“No.” 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 231 


She looked across the stretch of garden. “He 
would think it was. He’s not like you. I can’t talk 
to him—any more. I suppose I’m stupid.” 

Stephen Douglas didn’t look at her. It wasn’t 
safe to. What he wanted to say was—“You’re 
enchanting—and you’re the reason I’m leaving 
Thursday.” It was very difficult to think of her 
now as the wife of Michael Higgins. “Were you 
ever happy together?” he asked finally. 

Cynthia Higgins nodded. “Yes, in the begin¬ 
ning. And then Michael started getting rich. He 
was interested in things I didn’t understand. I sup¬ 
pose I began to be afraid of him. He managed 
everything, the children, even the house. He’s very 
capable.” Only the gravity of her manner stripped 
this tribute of its ridiculousness. “I’m not. I’m 
only—easy to look at.” 

And to make such a confession a woman must 
be very lovely indeed. 

Without even putting it into conscious thought, 
Stephen knew there were three things he could do. 
He could take her into his arms, as every instinct 
shouted in him to do, he could run away. Or he 
could forget himself and think of her. The times 
in a man’s life when he decides unselfishly are as 


232 


THE SHINING ROAD 


unaccountable, as unpredictable, as the times he 
doesn’t. They are neither reasonable nor logical. 
They just happen. Stephen Douglas knew suddenly 
that he might blunder, but he knew that this time 
he would be neither a knave nor a coward. 

“Look here,” he said, “I don’t suppose you’re any 
intellectual giant—but most people aren’t. You’ve 
had just one resource, your beauty. I reckon,” he 
hazarded, “it takes you two hours to dress for 
dinner.” 

She nodded. “I wish sometimes it took longer. 
It does when I have a facial.” 

“Lord!” He had believed two hours the pro- 
foundest hyperbole. Then he became serious. 
“There’s the children. I’ll bet they’re lonesome too, 
lonesome with too many nurses and tutors and 
Swedish bone-pullers.” He stopped a moment and 
the expression of his face was not pleasant to see. 
“Nothing that can happen later is so bitter as the 
loneliness of childhood. That’s something I happen 
to know. Look here,” he said, “why don’t you kid¬ 
nap those Indians?” 

She looked up at him startled. “How did you 
know ?” 

“I didn’t.” 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 233 


Her relief seemed to him both ridiculous and 
pathetic. “It’s a secret. Every Thursday.” Then, 
with the unpredictable resiliency of youth, she smiled 
up at him. “Would you like to come to-morrow 
to a—kidnapping?” 

Stephen Douglas hesitated just a second. 

“Please,” she said. She was amazingly in earnest. 

“I should be delighted.” His manner equaled 
hers in gravity. “If you should need any legal 
advice, it might be handy to have me along. Now, 
the laws regarding kidnapping in Illinois-” 

“Listen to me,” she interrupted. “At three o’clock 
to-morrow take the path that follows the creek and 
go as far as the farm house.” Her voice stopped 
suddenly. “Michael’s going to have the creek 
‘diverted’ into his old trout pool. Sometimes I 
think Michael goes too far when he starts bossing 
nature.” 

“That’s his job,” Stephen defended. “Think of 
his dams and his power plants.”' 

“I know,” she said. “But the children like Wil- 
lowcreek just as it is. It’s got wonderful things 
in it.” 

“Crawdads and tadpoles and water bugs. I 
know.” He remembered the delightful galaxy of 



2 34 


THE SHINING ROAD 


amphibians that had beguiled his own childhood. 
“Mud turtles are splendid too, if the creek’s slimy 
enough.” 

They both laughed. 

“How silly Michael would think this,” she said 
finally. 

“It is.” 

She nodded her head in solemn acquiescence. “I 
suppose it is—but it’s nice.” 

Ten minutes later a servant informed Mrs. Hig¬ 
gins that Mr. Higgins had returned and was wait¬ 
ing in the library to see Mr. Douglas. 

She held out her hand to him. “Good night. 
It’s been a nice evening.” 

“Good-by—until tomorrow.” 

Seated at the littered desk sat Stephen’s employer. 
For an instant the two men looked at each other, 
then the older man’s eyes wavered. “In Westhaven, 
Mass., they had a traction suit similar in many 
respects to this one,” he droned. Stephen Douglas 
watched him curiously. He was sunburnt, but his 
eyes looked haggard and the muscles of his lips 
were tense. It was only a veneer of health the 
bronzed skin bore. “They fought it through two 
court appeals,” he began. 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 235 


Stephen crossed the room and sat down opposite, 
his elbows on the table. For perhaps ten minutes 
he listened while the voice of his employer drove on. 

Finally Michael Higgins stopped. “Well?” he 
queried. 

Stephen came to with a start. He knew he must 
say something. “Curious parallel.” There was 
an interval of silence while Michael Higgins watched 
him. “But, you know, some way I can’t get very 
interested in that traction case to-night.” 

“No?” 

Stephen was amazed suddenly at the temerity of 
his confession. Perhaps its spontaneity had been 
its apology. 

At any rate, Michael Higgins looked at him with 
a sort of baffled curiosity rather than with anger. 
It was a long moment before he spoke. “You’re 
not interested to-night?” he repeated. “Well, neither 
am I.” Again there was an interval of silence. 
“Have you ever thought, Mr. Douglas, that some 
men work not because they enjoy the work but be¬ 
cause they’re afraid to stop? Afraid to face the 
vacuum of release, afraid to face what ever it is 
they’re forever denying and tucking under?” 

It was the first time Stephen Douglas had ever 


236 THE SHINING ROAD 

seen another man’s despair and he felt embarrassed 
and humble and inadequate. “Perhaps the thing 
one keeps denying, running away from,” he hoped 
dumbly he might not blunder, “wouldn’t be so monu¬ 
mental if it were faced.” 

Michael Higgins shook his head. “It’s not so 
simple as that.” He stopped again as though he 
were trying to put into words something he had 
never thought of articulately before. “Perhaps that 
something is a phantom barrier that has gotten as 
solid as the wall of China.” He laughed, a little 
self-consciously. He was not a man given to con¬ 
fidences. “The problem of human relations isn’t 
as simple as the building of dams and bridges.” 
Then he pushed the volumes away from him and 
rose from the table. “It’s not easy for some men 
to admit they’ve made a failure of anything. I’m 
one of those men.” 

“Mr. Higgins.” Stephen Douglas had risen too 
and was facing him. He was afraid to speak and 
yet it seemed, some way, as though he had to. “Mr. 
Higgins,” he repeated, “why don’t you follow the 
Willowcreek path as far as the farm house to-mor¬ 
row, at a quarter past three?” For a second time 
that night he was aghast at his foolhardiness. “I 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 237 


can’t tell you any more. Maybe I’ve done a terrible 
thing to have told you this much. But I can’t be¬ 
lieve I have, some way.” He stopped again, over¬ 
come with apprehension. 

Michael Higgins met his eyes. '‘Then you think 
I might run down my—spectre?” 

The younger man hesitated. “I don’t know, sir. 
I don’t even know which way to hope. There’s an 
awful lot in the world I’m not at all sure I under¬ 
stand.” 

For a long time that night Michael Higgins paced 
up and down the gravel driveway beyond the cypress 
hedge. It was indeed a strange business—this 
living. 

At a quarter to three Stephen Douglas closed 
the volumes that had to do with traction law and 
started, bareheaded, toward the sunlit garden. The 
path through the woodland was easy to find. It 
was a shiftless path, already sprinkled with fallen 
leaves that had gathered deep in the hollows and 
crackled agreeably as he walked, sending up the 
dusty, acrid smell that is so undeniably autumn. 
Overhead, from a tree still green, there shot forth 
an occasional flaming branch, token of October’s 
fulfillment. It was warm in the sun and insects 


238 


THE SHINING ROAD 


darted. Somewhere a black bird and a squirrel 
held controversy and the air was shrill with their 
protests. 

At the end of a long half mile the willow hedge 
vanished and before him Stephen saw an unpainted 
farmhouse. The doors stood open and a thin stream 
of smoke from the chimney disappeared against the 
dazzling sunlight. Stephen waited a moment un¬ 
decided. Suddenly from the thicket bordering the 
creek he heard voices. 

“Maybe if we took the darned engine out al¬ 
together it might run!” 

Stephen followed the lamentation. On the swampy 
bank of the creek stood the conspirators, Mrs. Hig¬ 
gins and the two boys. At the sound of his coming 
the three looked up startled. 

“Oh, you!” Mrs. Higgins gave a little giggle 
of relief, but the eyes of the two boys still regarded 
him with a question. She pointed to a gaudy toy 
motor boat on the mud before her. “We can’t make 
it work.” 

Stephen grinned in sympathy. “So I ascertained 
—way back there by the farm house.” In an instant 
he had joined them. “What’s the matter?” 

The boy from whom the front tooth was still 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 239 

missing met his eyes gravely. “Well, quite a lot 
of things.” He was a veritable Michael Higgins. 
“In the first place, you see-” 

It was a long list of grievances that followed and 
Stephen listened with flattering attention. “There are 
times when I wish I still worked in a garage and 
not a law office. This is one of them.” There were 
four heads now that bent over the recalcitrant toy. 

It was here that Michael Higgins, shielded by 
the thickest of hazel and sumac, looked down upon 
them. Mrs. Higgins’ skirt was torn and muddy, 
and the two boys, in their English suits, looked as 
un-English as any two other citizens of Illinois 
County. 

Suddenly there sounded a faint, wistful struggle 
in the soul of the motor. 

“Golly, did you hear that?” It was a piping 
voice, shrill with excitement. “Golly Moses!” 

But the struggle was futile, and all four mechanics 
broke at once into a volley of confused half sentences 
of explanation. 

“Well, it’s got a lot of elegant paint on it,” 
Stephen concluded, “but for a speed boat it’s too 
damn static. Look here, let me give it just one 
more turn.” 



240 


THE SHINING ROAD 


It was a long moment Michael Higgins stood 
there and watched them—enviously. This was his 
land, but he felt like a poacher, an outlaw. For 
the first time he realized how savagely lonesome he 
too had been. A branch crackled suddenly under 
his foot and he started, fearful that he might be 
detected. It was ridiculous to hide this way. Here 
was his chance at last. 

With more timidity than he had ever felt in 
facing a hostile board of directors, Michael Higgins 
pushed his way gingerly into the clearing. Then 
he stopped again. In the four pairs of eyes that 
flashed upon him only Stephen’s did not hold a 
challenge. “I—I wonder if I couldn’t help you,” 
he fumbled. “I owned a devil of a motor boat my¬ 
self once.” 

As though he were an officer of the law, the 
four of them stepped back dumbly and Michael 
Higgins picked up the gaudy plaything. Never be¬ 
fore had he wished so earnestly for success. The 
times he had gambled against winter to get a dam 
in, against the thaws of spring in the mountains, 
against bankruptcy and professional ruin seemed 
trivial now and over-rated. The whole crux of his 
life depended on whether he could conjure a falter- 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 241 


ing, spluttering semblance of motion out of a ridicu¬ 
lous toy. 

Skeptical and aloof, the three watched him. Only 
Stephen wished for a miracle. Finally Michael 
Higgins stooped and placed the toy in the water. 
His long fingers seemed scarcely to touch the 
machinery. Then suddenly there came a sharp 
report and another and another. 

“Gee,” gasped the miniature Michael Higgins. 

Then the magician headed the tiny craft into the 
broad, quiet waters of the pool and released his 
fingers. Like a valiant and ridiculous otter the boat 
slashed its way along. “Look out,” he said. “Catch 
her, Mike, before she bumps that mud bank!” 

Instantly the two boys in extremely grimy English 
suits sprang to obey the order. Nobody warned 
them to be careful not to fall in or not to tear 
their clothes. Discipline and even caution were lost 
in the drama of the adventure. On the heels of 
the boys ran Stephen and Michael Higgins. 

Knee deep in the mud Michael, Jr. received the 
onrushing vagrant and, dripping and exalted, held 
it aloof for the world’s admiration. “Gee,” he 
panted, “the darn thing’s still going. I’ll betcha it 
keeps on all day and to-morrow and maybe for ever. 

16 


2\2 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Funny,” he concluded, “how much nicer a boat is 
that runs, isn’t it, father?” 

A dull flush crept slowly toward Michael Hig¬ 
gins’ temples. He was happy, happier than when 
his first contract had been accepted, than when his 
first dam had held. 

Then he turned, very cautiously, toward Mrs. 
Higgins. “Cynthia,” he said, and his voice was 
very low, “it’s all my fault, of course, that he got 
wet, but don’t you reckon he ought to get some 
dry clothes on?” 

Cynthia Higgins nodded. “Bring him into the 
kitchen in a minute. I—I really ought to look 
in that oven.” She stopped, suddenly abashed, “I’ve 
got some cookies in there baking.” 

After two more successful excursions across the 
pool, Michael Higgins captured the boat. Stephen 
saw him struggle not to blunder. He was facing 
his first adventure as an acting parent and more 
than he feared offending the United States Senate 
he feared offending this freckle-nosed youngster. 
“Bob,” he said, “you and Mr. Douglas might wash 
the boat up. And Mike”—the appeal in his eyes 
was unmistakable—“you and I have got to find 
some dry duds.” 


MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 243 


Michael Higgins, Jr. joined his father without 
a murmur. “Sure,” he said. “I generally fall in 
worse than to-day.” He was trudging stolidly be¬ 
side his parent. “Then I go in the kitchen and 
mother drys them by the stove, and we get the party 
ready. Happens that way ’bout every Thursday.” 

Michael Higgins regarded his son quizzically. 
“Why, every Thursday?” 

“That’s the day we get kidnapped.” 

For an instant Michael Higgins suspected he was 
being made fun of, but the gravity of the boy’s 
manner reassured him. 

“It’s a secret,” he went on, “but I s’pose you 
might as well know, ’cause you’re here. Every 
Thursday afternoon everybody goes out but Ma- 
thilde. She’s the French one. Well, mother gives 
her a present, and lets her sit in her sitting room, so 
she won’t tell Mr. Ruskin. He’s the English one.” 
He scuffled dustily and with delight through a pool 
of leaves. “Well, we skin off and meet mother here. 
That’s all.” 

Michael Higgins looked at the boy with a sort 
of hungry yearning. “Have a good time?” 

“Oh, sorta.” He would rather die than betray 
an enthusiasm. 


244 


THE SHINING ROAD 


At the kitchen door they both stopped and 
Michael, Jr. sniffed skeptically. “Gee, mother, I’ll 
bet they’re burned.” 

Flushed and excited, she met the challenge. “I 
think it will scrape off. Besides, if we put lots of 
sugar on-” 

The boy nodded sagely. “Worked that way 
once.” He sat down on the floor and started tug¬ 
ging at the wet shoes. “I think it would pay me 
to keep a whole shift down here, ’stead of drying 
out separate every time.” 

A startled smile of amusement twisted Cynthia’s 
lips and her eyes caught her husband’s. It was 
the first spontaneous intimacy they had known for 
years. 

“I brought down some things for you yesterday.” 
She pointed to the chair by the oven. 

Michael, Jr. wasted no time. At the doorway 
he stopped suddenly and faced them. “Gen’lly I 
help,” he explained, “but I thought to-day you might 
let father.” He considered the matter judiciously. 
“I don’t suppose he’ll be very handy at first. But, 
then, I wasn’t either.” 

Across the unpainted floor of the shabby kitchen 
stretched a long band of sunlight through the open 



MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB-BELL 245 


doorway. A kettle bubbled on the rusty stove and 
in the center of the room a table was spread with 
a cheap red cover and laid with heavy blue and white 
china plates. 

For a long moment neither one of them moved. 
Finally Michael Higgins took a step toward the 
table. There was something appealing and genuine 
in his embarrassment. “Your son seemed to think 
you might show me how to help you.” There was 
a moment of silence. “What is it he usually does?” 

“Michael!” Something in her voice startled him. 

Across the long gulf of sunlight the two faced 
each other, and their eyes fought to read into the 
other’s reticence. It was Michael Higgins who 
broke the silence. “It’s come damn near being a 
mess,” he said, “hasn’t it?” 

She nodded, and her eyes did not leave his. “I’m 
sorry.” 

“Cynthia—” he stepped into the band of sunlight 
between them. Then he stopped again, awkwardly. 
“It hasn’t been your fault.” 

She shook her head solemnly. “I’m—not smart.” 

He held out his arms to her suddenly. “Cynthia, 
dearest,” he pleaded, “neither am I!” 

In November the case of the Mississippi Valley 


246 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Traction Company versus Selby County was appealed 
for the third time and the appeal was carried over 
to the next sitting of the court. To write Michael 
Higgins the result of that hearing was one of the 
hardest things Stephen Douglas had ever faced. 

“I know how you hate to see things drag on, in¬ 
complete and uncertain. And so do I. Besides, I 
want to run for governor some day. But it won’t 
be next year. 

“My regards to Mrs. Higgins and the boys. Glad 
you liked the new sail boat. 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Stephen Douglas.” 

To which replied Michael Higgins: 

“I’m sorry about your delayed campaign for the 
governorship, but I can’t be bothered now about 
that traction business. I’m too busy getting the dam 
at Willowcreek finished before the winter sets in and 
Michael, Jr. is a ruthless taskmaster. This propa¬ 
ganda for the shorter working day hasn’t reached 
him at all. 

“Mrs. Higgins and the boys send you their best. 

“Very truly yours, 

“Michael Higgins.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

STEPHEN DOUGLAS D'ARTAGNAN 

J 3 ROB ABLY if the Diamond Oil Refining Com¬ 
pany had made its proposition any other week 
during the entire existence of Stephen Douglas, 
attorney-at-law, nothing would have come of it. At 
any other time he would have been mildly flattered, 
he might even have dallied longingly with the El 
Dorado of wealth they offered him. He might have 
joked about it in the office, with a half conscious 
boast behind the jest, but he would certainly have 
turned it down. 

Deep in his heart lay the conviction success was 
not so simple as the Diamond Oil Refining Company 
led one to believe. Always, it seemed, he had known 
by what heart-breaking labor the millions of the 
world kept by a pitifully narrow margin one lap 
ahead of hunger. He knew by what valiant sacrifice 
even the humblest advancements were secured. Ste- 
247 


248 


THE SHINING ROAD 


phen Douglas had behind him no background of 
privilege or leisure or gentle rearing. His heritage 
was the heritage of the millions—but he was young 
and impatient and in love. 

At six o’clock he pushed the book before him 
across the table and his eyes stared at nothing about 
three feet away. Somewhere a window shade rattled 
and, mysteriously, over the roofs of the city came 
the smell of wet earth and young woodlands and 
the curious, scentless fragrance of meadow violets. 
It contained a magic that was full of longing and 
restlessness and tantalizing sweetness. 

He did not hear the door from the outer office 
open nor did he feel the presence of the woman 
who stood looking at him in the doorway. Finally 
she came a step into the room and her eye-brows 
lifted in a simulated jeer. “Your industry, Mr. 
Douglas,” she taunted, “is a beautiful inspiration 
to all of us.” 

He started, embarrassed at the mood in which 
he had been discovered, looked up at her and 
grinned. “You,” he said, and his relief was patent. 
“Why didn’t you blow your horn?” 

Lily Sedelmeyer looked down at him and the 
sharpness smoothed from her face as she looked. 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 249 


Lily hated herself for this softening. It was com¬ 
pletely out of character, it was debilitating, and it 
was utterly, irrevocably futile. Her conversation, 
however, contained always the fine jeering edge of 
raillery. Lily had her pride. She could dissemble 
successfully to the world, to him, but she made no 
attempt to fool herself. 

From a littered table she picked up an armful of 
books and replaced them on the shelves. “Come 
on/’ she said finally. “I want to put out the cat 
and lock up.” 

Stephen Douglas got up slowly and walked over 
to the window. A long moment he stood there, 
his hands jammed into the sagging pockets of his 
rough tweed jacket. 

For an instant a suffocating wave of resentment 
surged through Lily. She resented his handsome¬ 
ness, his litheness, she resented his youth. To her 
he had everything, intelligence, modesty, charm. He 
would succeed as surely as other men would fail. 
He would succeed because the world would wish 
for him only success. 

“Lily,” he said to her finally, “do you ever go 
stale on the show here?” 

Her eyes appraised him shrewdly. Lily was 


250 


THE SHINING ROAD 


thirty-six and she had not gone through the world 
blind-folded. She had been a rebellious learner, 
perhaps, but she had been forced to learn. Now 
she could have analyzed Stephen Douglas’ mood 
with the niceness of an operating surgeon, but she 
didn’t. “What show?” she asked finally. 

He shrugged his shoulders, with impatience. 
“This show. Everything.” He turned toward her 
now and his eyes were hard with dissatisfaction. 
“It all goes so damn slow. I’ve worked like a dog 
here three years now and where am I? I got my 
salary raised last week. I make a hundred and fifty 
dollars a month now. One hundred and fifty.” His 
voice was slow with emphasis. 

Lily slipped the last volume onto the shelf. “I 
suppose you know a great deal more law than the 
judge, too,” she commented. 

Stephen Douglas blushed. “Look here,” he said, 
“don’t hit below the belt.” 

“Well-” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sobbing 
that my native talents are being overlooked. In the 
first place there’s no future in a stand pat, antebellum 
law firm like this, and in the second place probably 
I’m a Grade A dumb-bell.” 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 251 

Lily Sedelmeyer smiled into the book-case. What 
she thought was “You’re a darling. I adore you and 
so does Wilmot Truman—and so does Wilmot Tru¬ 
man’s daughter.” What she said was, “I don’t know 
that your mentality is anything to write home about 
—but it’s average, Sweetheart. Average and that 
puts you ahead of some lawyers.” 

Stephen Douglas smiled again. “Gosh, but you’re 
magnanimous.” The smile disappeared from his 
face. He sat down at the table and drew an absent- 
minded and entirely undecorative design of triangles' 
on a brand new blotter. “Seriously though, I’m fed 
up. I spend my days seeing to it that Mr. Timothy 
Young, whom I have never seen, gets some money 
out of the estate of Mr. Silas Snuggins, whom I 
have also never seen. It’s a mess of wills and old 
leases and rottenly surveyed boundary lines.” He 
stopped a moment. “There’s neither money in it 
nor ethics nor even drama. What does it matter 
anyhow? Who cares?” 

Again Lily smiled into the book-case. “Probably 
Mr. Timothy Young cares,” she said. 

Stephen Douglas pushed back abruptly from the 
table. “You’re doubtless giving me exactly what I 
deserve,” he said grimly, “but I must say you’re 


252 


THE SHINING ROAD 


damned unsympathetic.” He had wanted to tell her 
about the Diamond Oil Refining Company, about 
the salary they had offered to retain him as their 
attorney. Stephen respected Lily’s judgment, as did 
every one in Judge Truman’s office, but Lily had a 
ruthless gift for satire and no man, no matter how 
hardy, dares to run the gauntlet of a woman’s ridi¬ 
cule. In his heart he had a suspicion Lily would 
characterize his furtive El Dorado as a cheap thing, 
unsound and ephemeral. She might even insinuate 
more sinister attributes. 

“Lily,” he said finally, “you’re a bigger conserva¬ 
tive than Henry Cabot Lodge.” 

Again a wave of yearning swept through her. 
He was so seriously, so appealingly young. He was 
both exalted and ridiculous. “I’m not twenty-five,” 
she said finally. This was self chastisement for a 
moment of weakness. Lily never made any refer¬ 
ence to her age. Then she smiled, a little maliciously. 
“By the way,” she said, “somebody’s got to go down 
to Panhandle County and take charge of that Snug- 
gins estate. Live there, I mean, till they get things 
into shape. Of course I don’t know,” she shrugged 
her shoulders lightly, “but there’s a rumor it’s going 
to be you.” 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 253 


“Lily—” There was no mistaking the anxiety in 
his voice. 

“Nice little town,” she went on, “built around a 
coal mine. Cosmopolitan.” She waited a minute 
for her catapult to strike. “You’ll probably get to 
like it after a while, though you’ll miss us a little at 
first, the judge and Constance Truman—and all of 
us.” 

Stephen Douglas got up from the table. “Your 
solicitude is touching,” he said finally. 

Lily blushed slowly, painfully. She had over¬ 
reached herself in that last remark. Just because he 
cared for Constance Truman was no reason she 
should want to wound him. She hated herself, not 
so much because her behavior was unkind as because 
it was unintelligent. She had wanted to tell him that 
David Sargent would probably marry Constance 
during Stephen’s absence. David was of course a 
better match, rich, well educated, handsome. David 
Sargent’s rearing represented the antithesis of Ste¬ 
phen’s—but it paralleled that of Constance’. If it 
had not been for the grudging kindness of Zeke 
Preston and the tender, unstinted sacrifice of his 
wife, Hephzibah, Stephen never would have reached 
the threshold of the university, never even have 


254 


THE SHINING ROAD 


received the tools with which to work his own way 
through. 

And Stephen was a worker. With the terrible 
patience of youth he had drudged at the dullest, 
most exacting labor in the judge’s office. Even the 
judge had marvelled at it. “It’s only when they’re 
young,” he had once observed to Lily, “that they’ll 
stand for the insufferable tyranny we old boys put 
upon them. Yes, I reckon it’s only with ‘that first 
fine, careless rapture’ that the heartbreaking work of 
the world gets done.” 

Lily closed the window where, in the April breeze, 
the shade had rattled. “The judge may tell you 
something about it tonight,” she said. “You’re 
going to the party, aren’t you?” 

Stephen Douglas shrugged his shoulders. “The 
judge probably won’t even know I’m there.” 

Lily could think of a dozen retorts—but she did 
not make them. There was something disarming in 
the genuineness of his modesty. Slowly she turned 
toward him. “Oh yes he will,” she said. “Several 
people are going to know you’re there.” She waited 
a moment. “More power to you, kid,” she laughed, 
“not that you’ll need it.” 

Maybe there is a providence that rewards the 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 255 


fierce, unhappy ones of the world for being even 
ordinarily civil. 

Stephen never went out to the judge’s without an 
especial emotion. The old house, dignified, almost 
beautiful, despite the execrable post civil war period 
to which it belonged, stood at the top of an oak 
covered knoll. To Stephen the lights from the long 
French windows in the drawing room streamed 
across the grass like silver paths of enchantment. 
He liked the big, gloomy library where the books 
reached all the way to the ceiling, the oak panelled 
dining room, the drawing room with its pier glass 
mirrors and its two carved marble fire-places. Judge 
Truman’s house typified to Stephen everything that 
was splendid and unattainable. It never occurred to 
him that Constance Truman, its mistress since the 
death of her mother, might find it a Frankenstein. 

Indeed to Constance Truman it represented all the 
loneliness and restraint of her girlhood. At sixteen 
she had become its mistress and no one would ever 
guess how many hours not only of thought and 
supervision but of actual manual labor the old 
monster had demanded. Because Trumans had 
always lived there, so Trumans would continue to 
live. If the judge suspected what the house meant 


256 


THE SHINING ROAD 


to his daughter he only suspected. Constance Tru¬ 
man had never complained. Her experience might 
have been limited but she was a thoroughbred, even 
to the point of unnecessary severity of self discipline. 

Stephen Douglas walked out to the Truman’s 
from Mrs. Ruben Brooks’ home on Center Street 
where he had a room and got his breakfasts. He 
walked because the interval from seven to eight- 
thirty became intolerable. Supper at the Beanery had 
consumed only twenty minutes, despite the fact he 
had had two desserts and had tried to eat slowly. 
Had he been an heir apparent girding himself for 
coronation he could not have been more elaborately 
meticulous in his dressing. And still the alarum 
clock on the shelf between Anatole France’s “Revolt 
of the Angels” and “Huckleberry Finn” indicated 
only seven seventeen. 

It was a long mile from Center Street up Capitol 
Hill where the Trumans lived and Stephen walked 
as slowly as he could force himself to. He was 
afraid to arrive too early though, more than any¬ 
thing in the world, he wanted to be alone with 
Constance Truman. He was fearful of arriving 
late and being conspicuous. Stephen Douglas was 
perhaps as unself conscious and as spontaneous a 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 257 


young man as lived in Selby County but he was 
capable of tormenting himself with a thousand 
hideous eventualities of social catastrophe. To-night 
he was as nervous as a school girl at her first dance 
and he hated himself for his humility. 

Between the black trunks of the trees stretched the 
last pale gbld of an early April sunset. From the 
top of the hill he looked out toward the country, 
mist veiled, gentle, mysterious. It was one of those 
evenings that bring restlessness into the blood and 
a thirsting for even greater beauty when one cannot 
quite endure the beauty that lies at hand. 

Stephen waited until after a dozen automobiles 
had driven arduously up the narrow graveled drive¬ 
way designed in the more limited days of the horse 
and buggy. He pretended he had an errand further 
out the street and then he laughed at himself for the 
childishness of his pretense. At twenty minutes of 
nine he rang the bell at the front door which was 
opened obsequiously by the grinning negro who 
mowed lawns and tended furnaces in the neighbor¬ 
hood. High Henry, as the street called him, had 
known all the guests at Miss Constance’s parties 
from infancy. He had driven them mightily off 
porches he was scrubbing. He had put out adventur- 
17 


258 


THE SHINING ROAD 


ous fires built during the playing Indian period. He 
had rescued many a college graduate from a child¬ 
hood death in the hay shoot of Judge Truman’s hay¬ 
mow. To be greeted by High Henry was a sign of 
social greatness. Stephen was not greeted. 

Upstairs, in the room where the men laid off their 
coats, he recognized David Sargent and instantly he 
knew Sargent’s clothes and his bore only little more 
resemblance to each other than the clothes of a Fiji 
Islander and a Laplander. The arrogant slimness 
of young Sargent appeared to Stephen at that mo¬ 
ment as the attribute above all others most to be 
desired. Sargent was a prince of the blood, and 
Stephen a Gurth with the brass ring of mediocrity 
soldered around his neck. Never had his hands 
seemed so large or his clothes so unsuited—or his 
future so drab. 

He walked slowly down the great stair-case, 
carpeted thickly in faded Brussels, the air faintly 
sweet with the perfume of girls’ frocks. It seemed 
as though a hundred people crowded past him, laugh¬ 
ing, the girls bewilderingly beautiful, the men ap¬ 
pallingly at ease. At the doorway of the drawing 
room Stephen stood still a moment. The rugs had 
been removed from the parquet floor, once the boast 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 259 


of the town, and a grinning, perspiring negro 
quartette, favorites of Joe’s Jazz Orchestra, fur¬ 
nished the music. Constance Truman danced by him 
and smiled. It seemed to him he had never beheld 
any one so beautiful. She was the blessed damozel 
leaning out from the gold bar of heaven, she 
was Browning’s Last Duchess, she was Rosamund 
and Isolde and Guinevere. She was all the women 
poets have created out of the golden longing for 
romance that lies in the heart of each of us. 

Even as Stephen stared David Sargent pushed by 
him and did that triumphantly masculine thing 
known as cutting in. Constance smiled apologeti¬ 
cally at her erstwhile partner who bore his release 
protestingly, looked up at David Sargent and a 
second time she glided past Stephen. It seemed to 
the young man in the doorway Sargent held her un¬ 
necessarily, boastingly securely. Stephen wondered 
suddenly why he had come. He didn’t belong here, 
he was an alien, an outsider. He had been invited 
because the judge wanted to be kind to him, not be¬ 
cause he could ever hope to become a member of this 
society. A sudden wave of resentment swept through 
him. He hated himself, he hated his lot, he hated the 
world. 


26 o 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Then, suddenly, he started as though a gun had 
gone off, when a sturdy hand was clapped on his 
shoulder. It was the judge. 

“Come on, young man,” he said, “and play chess.” 

Back on the farm in Green Mountain Stephen had 
played chess with Zeke. Night after night he had 
watched the grizzled, work stiffened hand across 
from him push the castle one square forward, 
hesitate, retreat with it, then after five minutes re¬ 
peat the first move and lose to Stephen’s knight. 
Stephen remembered Zeke’s childish chagrin and 
rage. Sometimes Stephen would retreat magnani¬ 
mously and let Zeke win a point, even a game. But 
Zeke was an ungracious winner and chalked up to 
Stephen’s score in heaven must surely stand the 
times he allowed himself to be beaten. 

But the judge was of different calibre. Stephen 
didn’t want to play. He wanted to go back to the 
drawing room and feast his misery on his left alone- 
ness. He wanted to be near Constance Truman. He 
wanted to suffer. 

“Have a care, lad,” said the judge. “I’ve caught 
you.” With the triumphant grin of a school boy 
he removed Stephen’s knight. 

The young man across from him blushed. “I 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 261 


pulled a boner all right,” he admitted. “I—I don’t 
seem to be tracking very well this evening.” 

Judge Truman did not deny the allegation. A 
second and a third time Stephen lost. It seemed to 
him the game must go on for ever, as though he had 
always sat there opposite the grey bearded old judge, 
as though he would always sit opposite him. Dance 
after dance he heard begun and finished in the draw¬ 
ing room. Couples came adventuringly to the door 
of the judge’s study, stopped abruptly at the thres¬ 
hold and retreated. Stephen could feel their eyes 
on his back, he could hear their gasps of astonish¬ 
ment and hear the high pitched, laughing voices of 
young girls. 

Judge Truman, however, never faltered. It was 
not often he discovered a chess playing male and he 
was enjoying his discovery, despite the fact that this 
opponent appeared often to have entirely unaccounta¬ 
ble mental aberrations. Judge Truman was enjoy¬ 
ing this dancing party of his daughter’s more than 
he had ever enjoyed one before. For a moment he 
was almost reconciled to having the house in a tumult 
and to the malicious misplacing of his favorite black 
brier. 

But nothing apparently, even chess, can go on 


262 


THE SHINING ROAD 


forever. When it seemed to Stephen as though a 
mean spirited providence had created him with the 
sole purpose of pushing grotesque wooden pegs 
around a checkered board he saw the judge look 
up toward the doorway and smile, a little sheep¬ 
ishly. 

“Don’t scold,” he said. “I’m an old man, re¬ 
member, and be kind.” 

Constance Truman laughed. “Father, you’re a 
wretch. You’ve taken a loathsome advantage of 
Stephen Douglas just because he’s young and has 
a soft heart.” She came nearer and stood looking 
down at them. Constance Truman was very lovely, 
lovelier perhaps because there was something eva¬ 
nescent in her beauty, something not quite given. 
She bewitched the imagination with a thousand 
potentialities. “Your Honor,” she said, “if by any 
chance I should find your pipe would you relinquish 
your partner?” 

Judge Truman chuckled and turned to Stephen. 
“The diplomacy of woman has not advanced a step 
since the days of Louis XIV. In spite of the upright 
example I’ve always given my daughter she’s no 
exception.” He gave one more longing look at the 
chess board, then he scattered the pawns with a 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 263 


generous hand. “I'd have licked you anyway,” he 
boasted. “Run along.” 

Stephen rose and followed his hostess. “Let’s 
go outside a minute,” she said. “It’s downright 
tropical in that dancing room.” 

Stephen looked down at her shyly. “You ought to 
wear something around you,” he said, “more than 
that thing.” Then he blushed, both at his com¬ 
monplaceness and at his presumption. 

Constance Truman shrugged her shoulders. 
“Don’t be cautious.” 

“I’m a lawyer,” he defended. “We live by cau¬ 
tion alone.” 

They were in the garden now and the night breeze 
caught up the chiffon scarf she wore and trailed it an 
instant across Stephen’s cheek. Constance drew in 
a quick breath of the night sweetness. “Don’t be 
cautious,” she said, “in April. I don’t care how 
good a lawyer you are.” 

Stephen laughed, a little bitterly. “I’m a rotten 
lawyer,” he protested. 

“You’re spoiled.” 

Stephen stared at her in amazement. “Miss Tru¬ 
man,” he said, “I’ve never doubted your perspicacity 
before, but now you’re raving.” 


264 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Constance Truman shook her head. “No, I'm 
not. ,, She sat down on a filigree iron seat, rusted 
and immensely uncomfortable. “Come on,” she 
said. “Let’s talk.” 

“You’re going to ruin your dress,” he admonished. 

“Caution again,” she jeered. 

“All right,” he conceded, “but don’t say I didn’t 
warn you, young woman.” 

For a long moment they sat in silence. An April 
moon, tiny and very distant, thrust a curious horn 
over the cupola on top of the Truman mansion. 
Somewhere a night thrush twittered. 

“I’m going to get you my coat.” In an instant he 
was back. “Here,” he said. 

Silently she obeyed him and she looked ridicu¬ 
lously small and feminine huddled inside his three 
year old rain coat. 

“I thought you said ‘let’s talk,’ ” he said finally. 

She smiled up at him. “Did I?” Then she 
stopped a moment. “Well, there’s the street car 
franchise,” she said, “or the international situation 
or we might discuss our favorite books.” 

“You’re a heartless woman. To torment a simple 
country boy like me that way-” 

“Then you suggest something.” Again she smiled 



STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 265 


up at him. “Besides which, I doubt this role of 
agricultural unsophistication.” 

Stephen laughed, but lacking somewhat in convic¬ 
tion. “You’re crueller even than I had imagined. 
You’re not only rich and beautiful and clever—but 
you’re unexpected.” He stopped, astounded at his 
temerity. “Ever since that first time I saw you in 
the judge’s office I’ve thought you were the most 
consistently gentle person in the world. You were 
sorry for me and so you made me feel as though I 
were just as good as anybody else. Just as though 
I’d been Skull and Bones.” He laughed again. “Or 
as though my suits had fitted.” 

Constance Truman looked away from him this 
time. “Maybe I did—and I lost.” 

“What do you mean—lost ?” he demanded. 

She lifted her shoulders in a little appealing 
gesture. “Just that—lost. I made you feel as 
'though I were somebody sort of special, as though I 
had a right to be patronizing. You were always so 
terribly humble, so grateful. You never would treat 
me like an ordinary human being who had dis¬ 
appointments and crazy longings—like everybody 
else.” She stopped suddenly. It had been difficult 
to say what she had said. The inhibitions of youth 


266 


THE SHINING ROAD 


are not easy to batter down. Then she looked up at 
him, as shyly as a child. “You see, you’re worth 
a dozen of me. It’s too ridiculous—your atti¬ 
tude.” 

“Constance—” For a long moment they faced 
each other. It seemed to him suddenly as though 
he might take her in his arms, as though she might 
even want him to. Everything in him called out to 
her. She represented to him all the sweetness and 
gentleness he had longed for all his life and never 
had. Before her he felt the terrible humility of one 
who loves with first devotion. Just because he cared 
so much he could see nothing but the barriers be¬ 
tween them. He was a nobody in her father’s office. 
He would probably always be a nobody. He could 
offer her nothing, she who had everything. The 
Trumans had been American aristocracy ever since 
King James had given Sir Philip Truman, of Sus¬ 
sex, England, a grant of land in Virginia. Stephen 
Douglas had been placed out from the Home for 
Orphans in Des Moines. The whole thing was in¬ 
credible, ridiculous. 

But even as he renounced her he leaned toward 
her. “Constance—” 

Suddenly some one appeared on the terrace. It 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 267 


was David Sargent with his splendid assurance and 
his arrogant slimness and his excellent clothes. 

“Hello ,” he said. “Kidnapped?” The look he 
gave Stephen Douglas was not intended to put him 
at his ease. Then he turned to Constance. “The 
judge sent me to find you. You promised him his 
pipe.” 

They both rose and the three of them walked 
slowly back to the house. It was midnight by the 
great clock on the stairs. Stephen Douglas said 
goodnight and he walked back to Mrs. Ruben 
Brooks' in a torment of dreams. 

In the middle of the night he awoke and the 
thought came to him with that curious, distorted 
clearness of ideas that startle us into wakefulness 
that David Sargent’s father had been a nobody until 
the days of “local option” in Iowa had made of his 
comer drug-store a golden, if not altogether legal, 
mint of income. The thing that really mattered in 
this world was money. Money was the open sesame 
to power and beauty and even love. All right then, 
he, Stephen Douglas, would become rich. 

Next morning in the office he found this letter, 
postmarked from Green Mountain, Iowa. The paper 
was from one of the cheap lined tablets they sold in 


268 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Guy Hempel’s Emporium and the handwriting was 
Hephzibah Preston’s. 

“Dear Stevie,” he read. “You don’t know how I 
hate to write this to you but I decided finally it was 
only right you should know. Zeke made an invest¬ 
ment, I think they call it. Maybe he’ll make a lot 
of money some day, but now the bank is pressing us 
for the interest on the note we owe them. And we 
can’t meet it. I’m sorry for Zeke and you’d be too if 
you saw him. 

“Oh Stevie, I hope this isn’t going to make you 
make too big a sacrifice. It isn’t safe to tell some 
people your troubles. But I thought you ought to 
know. 

“We are proud of you, one and all. 

“Your affectionate, 

“Aunt Hephzibah” 

Stephen Douglas read it through twice and he 
swore under his breath. He wondered idly what 
investment Zeke had made. Zeke knew as much 
about business as one of his own plough horses. A 
wave of indignation swept through him. He was 
furious with Zeke for his stupidity, he was irritated 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 269 

with Hephzibah for her charitableness toward her 
husband. The cards were surely stacked against 
him. 

That evening he sent Hephzibah a letter enclosing 
a cheque for the interest at the bank—and he wrote 
the Diamond Oil Refining Company that he was will¬ 
ing to accept at once the proposition they had made 
to him. 

In the weeks that followed Stephen Douglas 
worked harder than he had ever worked before in 
his life. He was not only determined to deserve 
the fantastically large salary he was being paid but 
there were many things in connection with his 
departure from Judge Truman's office it gave him 
little pleasure to remember. 

Lily had been candidly derogatory. The name of 
the company alone, she assured him, had a discredit- 
ingly optimistic touch. He didn’t like to remember 
either the look in her eyes as he had left. 

The judge, too, had asked him to have the com¬ 
pany investigated a little more thoroughly before he 
cast in his lot with it. He made no insinuation. He 
only warned Stephen that the country was full at this 
moment of investment companies the chief assets of 
which were their stimulating bondsalesmen. Against 


270 


THE SHINING ROAD 


the Diamond Oil Refining Company he knew 
nothing. Perhaps he was himself over conservative. 
Perhaps he was just a little disappointed. 

“I had sort of hoped,” he said, “you felt you 
belonged here. There is nothing meteoric about this 
firm, to be sure, but it will probably be here to¬ 
morrow—and a week from to-morrow.” 

Against his will Stephen had found himself in the 
position of champion for an almost unknown con¬ 
cern. He wished more times than he cared to admit 
even to himself that he had not been quite so pre¬ 
cipitate. But he had made his bed. Now he would 
have to lie on it. 

The night before he left for Kansas City, where 
the main offices of the company were located, he 
went to call on Constance Truman. She was alone 
in the library when he arrived. She had not expected 
him and he noticed she had been reading “The Three 
Musketeers.” 

“Like it?” he asked. 

She nodded, her finger still holding the page. 
“Yes. Every time I read it.” 

They sat down facing each other, the light from 
the reading lamp threw their hands into vivid con¬ 
trast but left their faces in shadow. 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 271 


“Why do you like it?” he said finally, “except 
that it’s a darn good yarn.” 

Constance Truman smiled. “Well, it is a good 
yarn.” She was silent a moment. “But it’s some¬ 
thing else too. It’s romance and far countries and 
adventure and freedom.” 

“It’s rough and vulgar and passionate and im¬ 
moral.” He stopped suddenly. “And you like it?” 

“I like it.” She met his eyes frankly. “It is the 
most fabulous stuff in the world—but it’s real. 
It’s as real as the wish behind it. Look at this 
house,” she said finally, “at this town—at me. 
Everything in my life has been perfectly comfortable 
and perfectly commonplace. It’s been varied with 
going to California instead of to Florida—with 
ordering lamb chops instead of steak for my father’s 
dinner.” She laughed, a little embarrassed at her 
outburst. “Can you see now why girls like me 
escape via the route of ‘The Three Musketeers’ ?” 

Stephen looked at her in amazement. “Funny,” 
he said at last, “from my side of the world your life 
looks like Christmas and striking gold in the Klon¬ 
dike. To the girls I know you’ve got everything.” 
He stopped a moment. “All the things they couldn’t 
have—no matter how much gold they’d strike.” 


272 


THE SHINING ROAD 


She leaned toward him suddenly, her eyes search¬ 
ing his face. “Why do you say ‘from my side of the 
world’ ?” 

For a moment he met her eyes, then he looked 
down at the tips of his shoes, splendidly new and 
shiny. He thought suddenly of Lily Sedelmeyer, 
of Anna, of the girls who would never leave the 
farm, of the girls who were teaching school and 
working their way through college, of the girls who 
would never make more than twenty-five dollars a 
week in somebody else’s office, of the girl who waited 
on him at the Beanery, of the girl at the cashier’s 
desk. Money could never restore to them the sense 
of security, of gaiety they had lost in childhood, for 
the acid of poverty etches deep and its marks are not 
always beautiful. Their background was his, their 
fight had been his. It was one of those girls he 
should marry. 

“Stephen,” she persisted, “aren’t you the one who 
is making the fine distinctions ? Is—there ever any 
barrier between people who talk the same language— 
really—even though they don’t pronounce it quite 
the same?” She was leaning toward him now and 
her face was very close to his. “Stephen, does there 
need to be a barrier?” 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 273 


It was a long moment before he answered, a mo¬ 
ment in which they both wondered what he would 
say. Never before had he wanted so much to tell 
her that he loved her, that she was the reason he 
was going away, that she had been the reason for 
everything in his life ever since that first day he had 
seen her. 

“There doesn’t need to be a barrier,” he said 
finally. “But there is.” 

Slowly she drew away and her hands fell listlessly 
in her lap. “Then there’s nothing for my side of 
the world to do but go on reading—The Three 
Musketeers’ ?” She smiled and lifted her shoulders 
with a sort of wistful irony. 

Suddenly Stephen rose and came over to her. 
“Constance-” 

And the door to the library opened. It was Seena, 
the cook. “Mr. Sargent’s here,” she said sharply. 
“Pity you couldn’t hear the bell.” Answering the 
door-bell was—determinedly—not one of Seena’s 
responsibilities. 

The weeks in Kansas City would always remain 
to Stephen a nightmare. He had never met before 
the type of person who is a promoter. He had 
never heard money talked as loosely or as extrava- 



274 


THE SHINING ROAD 


gantly as they did. It was a fantastic world in which 
they lived, always believing that to-morrow would 
justify the promise of to-day. Stephen admitted 
they were clever. He had never discovered them 
to be deliberately dishonest. Each month they paid 
him his salary and each month he took it with a curi¬ 
ous sense of distrust. Socially he had met no one. 
He wrote sometimes to Hephzibah and sometimes 
to Lily. It became increasingly difficult to write to 
Constance. 

Finally there came this bit of news from Lily. 
“It's a small world, old dear/’ she wrote. “Anyway, 
we’ve got a case against your precious Diamond Oil 
concern. Seems they don’t declare dividends as 
often as some of the folks who bought stock in it 
were lead to believe they would. Maybe our clients 
are a grasping lot but, off hand, I should say they 
were a simple bunch of farmers, hog tied and ham 
strung, as, I believe, you agriculturists put it.” 

Stephen reread the letter. The disagreeable con¬ 
viction came home to him that Judge Truman sel¬ 
dom took a case he couldn’t win—and he seldom 
took a case he didn’t believe oughtn’t to be won. 
Stephen knew the Diamond Oil Concern was over¬ 
capitalized. He knew he didn’t like the sort of neck- 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 275 


ties its officers wore, but he wouldn’t let himself 
believe the firm was crooked. He had too much at 
stake. 

Suddenly the idea came to him that he might be 
expected to defend the company against the attacks 
of Judge Truman. The dramatic irony of the situa¬ 
tion struck him. Surely fate could not be so mali¬ 
ciously clever. He dismissed the notion as absurd 
because of its very appropriateness. 

And then he was appointed to handle the case. 

Had he protested he might have been relieved but 
a Spartan New England conscience, distorted now 
and quixotic, made him believe he could ask no 
special dispensations. He was a private in an army 
the rightness of whose cause he distrusted. He had 
not even the consolation of having been drafted. 
He was a volunteer. 

On Thursday he left Kansas City. Friday morn¬ 
ing he met Lily Sedelmeyer on the steps of the court 
house. They looked at each other a long time, each 
waiting for the other to determine the tone of the 
interview. It was a hot August morning, dusty and 
cheerless. Eddies of dust twisted up from the 
street, powdering their clothes and stinging their 
eyes. Suddenly all the resentment in Lily died out. 


276 


THE SHINING ROAD 


He looked so young, at once, and haggard. In 
place of the bronze country tan was the gray fatigue 
of a city summer and he seemed very thin. 

“Hullo/’ she said, “little homing pigeon.” 

Stephen smiled, against his better judgment. 
“Hullo, yourself.” 

For another long moment they looked at each 
other. “Stevie,” she said finally, “come on back.” 

He shook his head and his eyes looked out over 
the city. “I can’t. Besides which, the judge wouldn’t 
have me.” Then he looked at her again and smiled. 
“I don’t believe even you could manoeuver that.” 

A slow flush crept down Lily’s cheek. “Not 
that you deserve to be let back,” she said finally. 
Lily took a step toward the building then she stopped 
and looked down at the young man beside her. 
“Stevie,” she said, “I don’t suppose I’ve got any 
business to tell you—but I’m going to. Among 
those who got stuck buying Diamond Oil certificates 
appears to be one Hezekiah Preston. They must 
have got a census list of the county,” she went on. 
“Anyway, there weren’t many that got left out.” 
She stopped again, embarrassed and timid to hurt 
him. “Maybe this wasn’t news to you after all.” 

He looked very much older suddenly than twen- 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAG NAN 277 

ty-six. It was a moment before he answered. “Yes,” 
he said finally, “it is news. I—I’m grateful to you 
for telling me.” Then he lifted his cap to her and 
she strained to watch him, blinking against the sun, 
until he disappeared down Walnut Street. Slowly 
she turned away and her eyes smarted. Maybe it 
was the sun. 

“Gosh,” she whispered softly, “gosh.” 

Saturday the blow struck. Stephen received a 
telegram from Kansas City that he read and reread, 
though it seemed to him he had known all along 
what it would say. He could even have predicted 
the words that ran, not quite straight, across the yel¬ 
low page. 

“Company bankrupt, receivers to be appointed by 
the court, your services no longer needed.” Signed 
George M. Thornton, secretary. 

The evening papers would carry the news he was 
certain. It would be on the front page. He might 
even be interviewed. For a second he was paralyzed 
by the throttling fear of publicity. With terrible, 
rapid invention he conjured up the printed phrases. 
He was diabolically clever at it. Then he laughed, 
unpleasantly, “I ought to go in for writing.” 

He was sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel 


278 


THE SHINING ROAD 


bedroom. A cotton curtain, gray with many wash¬ 
ings, hung motioriless at the open window. Around 
the brass chandelier a clumsy fly, large and noisy, 
winged a blundering flight. The room was dusty 
and stiflingly hot. Stephen stood up suddenly. He 
had to get away from here. Any place. It seemed 
that the walls, up which climbed swollen, pale blue 
roses, would close in on him. In a panic of haste he 
threw his scattered belongings into a suit case. It 
was a new suit case. He had bought it just before 
he went to Kansas City, but the leather hadn’t been 
very good. It was shabby already. 

At the desk Stephen paid his bill, in a tumult of 
impatience at the clerk’s garrulous leisureliness. He 
stood for a moment on the street corner, his cap 
pushed back on his head, his tousled hair, curly in 
the murky heat, damp against his forehead. Before 
him streamed the traffic of the town, trolleys, grind¬ 
ing noisily at the corner, Jim Fay with a load of 
trunks from the station, rattling Ford delivery 
wagons from a half dozen grocers, pretty girls driv¬ 
ing touring cars, self consciously casual and disarm¬ 
ingly efficient. It was a pageant he had viewed a 
hundred times with indifference. Now it had taken 
on significance. He yearned toward it, somehow, 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 279 


as one does toward a person. It had become a part 
of him and he was leaving it. 

Across the street, from the window of Judge Tru¬ 
man’s library, Lily Sedelmeyer looked down. It was 
hot in the judge’s office and she was bored. In 
August, she decided, one is most oppressed by the 
futility, the defeated longing of existence. “It’s a 
dull world,” she thought—and then her eyes found 
Stephen. 

Suddenly a stab of fear went through her. She 
too had known the news the evening papers would 
contain—and she knew Stephen Douglas. Well, he 
deserved all that was coming to him. She had 
warned him once and this would be a lesson. 

Stephen put his suit case down, took off his cap 
and mopped his forehead. His face was white and 
his eyes frightened her. 

“Gosh,” she thought. “Youth is a terrible thing. 
It can suffer so.” 

For a long moment she watched him. She wanted 
to call to him, to go down to him, but she did not 
move. She saw him signal the interurban trolley 
bound for Gladbrook. She saw the gates fold closed 
behind him. He was gone. 

Then the door to the office opened and Constance 


28 o 


THE SHINING ROAD 


Truman stood in the doorway. “Father here?” 
She looked charmingly cool and lovely in pale green 
linen. She made Lily think of the iris that grows 
in the shade of the willows. No wonder Stephen 
loved her. 

“Gone. Sam Markley took him out to the Coun¬ 
try Club an hour ago.” 

“Oh.” She waited a moment. “Couldn’t I drive 
you home, Miss Sedelmeyer ? I’ve got the car here.” 

Lily did not move from the window. “Thanks. 
I—I can’t leave yet.” For a long moment her eyes 
searched the face of the girl before her. Then she 
came to a decision. “Miss Truman,” she said, “this 
is none of my business but I’m going to tell you.” 
Again she stopped. “Stephen Douglas’ firm is 
busted and he’s fired. It—wasn’t a very pretty bank¬ 
ruptcy and it won’t be a quiet one. It wasn’t his 
fault, of course, their methods I mean, but he doesn’t 
believe that now.” Constance Truman’s eyes did not 
falter. “I saw him a minute ago. He got on the 
Gladbrook trolley. I suppose he was going back to 
Green Mountain. Home, you know, as somebody 
said, is something you somehow don’t have to de¬ 
serve.” Suddenly Lily turned away toward the win¬ 
dow and her voice was unpleasant. “Maybe girls 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 281 


like you who are well-bred and sheltered would think 
what Pm going to say was out of bounds. ,, She 
lifted her thin shoulders ironically. “I wouldn’t be 
any judge.” Then she turned back to Constance. 
“You can overtake that trolley at Gladbrook. He’s 
got to wait there for an east bound one to Green 
Mountain. You could reach him in an hour—if you 
cared.” 

Another long moment the two women stood fac¬ 
ing each other. Then Constance Truman came a 
step nearer. “It is 'out of bounds’—what you sug¬ 
gest,” she said finally. Her face was very grave. 
“But I don’t think I care if it is.” Then she looked 
up at Lily and smiled, a little shyly. “You’ve been 
very good to me, Miss Sedelmeyer.” 

Lily turned again toward the window. “Yes,” she 
said finally, “I have.” 

On a bench, scarred with dozens of idle initials, 
outside the Gladbrook waiting room, sat Stephen 
Douglas. It was that last moment of sunlight after 
the sun has gone and the west is flecked with clouds 
of burning copper. Eastward and westward for 
endless acres stretched the cornfields, sere and for 
lorn looking. The wind drew across them softly, 
knocking the dry leaves against each other and bring- 


282 


THE SHINING ROAD 


ing the smell of goldenrod and dusty leaves and 
wood smoke. 

Stephen Douglas, his hands between his knees, 
his cheap suit case at his side, sat staring at the 
cracks in the rough pine platform beneath him. A 
mosquito sang ominously close to his ear but he did 
not brush it away. He was utterly fatigued, utterly 
miserable. He must start out all over again now 
and with a stain on his record. He must get over 
wanting the things he had always longed for and 
could never have. He must give up his dreams, like 
the thousands and thousands who had given up 
theirs and gone on living, somehow. 

Then he heard a footstep on the platform. It 
was Constance. 

A long moment he looked up at her incredibly. 
Then he got to his feet. “You!” he said, “Or am I 
wandering ?” 

She smiled and came a step nearer. “Maybe we 
both are. Stephen—” She was standing very close 
to him now. He could feel the softness of her 
presence almost like something tangible. “Stephen,” 
she repeated, “I didn’t follow you because I felt sorry 
for you. I’m not going to humiliate you with sym¬ 
pathy. Anyway, that little misadventure of yours is 


STEPHEN DOUGLAS D’ARTAGNAN 283 

awfully unimportant. I followed you selfishly.” She 
hesitated a moment. “I was afraid you were going 
away—for always.” Her eyes met his with shy 
bravery and her voice came slowly. “I don’t want 
you to go.” 

Stephen Douglas jammed his hands deeper into 
the sagging pockets of his jacket. “This isn’t fair— 
unless you mean it,” he said, “and it’s madness if 
you do.” She did not interrupt him. “Don’t you 
see—I’m a nobody. I’d be the poorest bet in the 
world. I don't even know who I am myself. Some¬ 
times I think I’ve got the making of a splendid ras¬ 
cal in me. I might be anything. I’ve got no tradi¬ 
tion to hang on to. I’ve got no sign posts to follow.” 
He stopped suddenly, his face pale with emotion. 
“Can’t you see, sweetheart, it would be a leap into 
the dark if you took me? It would be madness— 
and I love you.” 

“Stephen-” 

At once their arms were around each other and 
they held each other with the desperateness of love 
that has been beaten back again and again. It 
seemed that the whole of their lives had been building 
up for that instant. It had pain in it and joy and 
peace. It was one of the few moments of complete 



284 


THE SHINING ROAD 


reality that come into a man’s existence. There was 
no past and no future. Nothing mattered but their 
arms around each other and the pressure of their 
lips. 

Finally he held her away from him. “Constance 
—” He was frightened at the enormity of his love 
for her, at the response of her love to his. “I’ve no 
right to let you love me. Don’t you know, dearest, 
you’re throwing yourself away? What would your 
father think—or your friends, or the town?” 

Their hands holding hard to each other they stood 
there. “Listen Stephen,” she said at last and her 
eyes did not waver, “can’t you see that you’re my 
big adventure. I’m glad that it’s going to be a leap 
into the dark. Stevie, there’s only been one thing 
I’ve been afraid of.” She stopped again and her 
eyes lifted shyly to his. 

“What thing?” 

“Afraid the nearest I’d ever get to a—leap into 
the dark was reading ‘The Three Musketeers.’ ” 
Gently she drew close to him and her arms sought 
the curve of his shoulders. “Afraid there’d never 
be any risky, wayward, delightful—Stephen 
d’Artagnan.” 


The End 


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